Lingering at the Start
by Annymc
Summary: Teen Wolf/Walking Dead - Having survived their Junior year, the McCall Pack has just enjoyed some well-deserved R&R, a nice little uninterrupted camping trip away from the supernatural turmoil of Beacon Hills, CA. Their first warning is the phone call. Their second is Lydia's voice rising up and echoing out in every direction. The dead are walking and no one is safe. 15 Chapters
1. Lydia is laughing in the backseat

Crossover Series: Part 1

Title: Lingering at the Start

Pairing: Allison/Scott (past relationship), Allison/Isaac, Scott/Kira, Stiles/Derek (preslash and building)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Canon typical violence for both Teen Wolf and The Walking Dead. Blood and Gore. Not everyone is going to survive.

Summary: Teen Wolf/Walking Dead Crossover - Having survived their Junior year, the McCall Pack has just enjoyed some well-deserved R&R, a nice little uninterrupted camping trip away from the supernatural turmoil of Beacon Hills, CA. They don't know that things have been happening in town, that things have been happening everywhere. Their first warning is the phone call. Their second is Lydia's voice, rising up and echoing out in every direction. The dead are walking and no one is safe.

Author's Note: This is going to be a multi-story saga, that ends with a full crossover between the two shows. The first story is completed and I am currently writing story 2.

Ch. 1.

Lydia is laughing in the backseat with Kira, debating about the best way to wear your hair in a crisis. Allison is turned around in her seat beside Stiles, laughing and arguing for the benefits of a bun ("It keeps your hair out of the way, but it's harder for an enemy to grab onto than a ponytail!"), while Stiles fights not to roll his eyes. The four of them are crammed into Stiles' jeep, because Scott had commandeered Derek's Soccer Mom car for a werewolf only boys club meeting. No humans, kitsune's or banshees allowed. Stiles had tried not to feel paranoid about being regulated to the chick car. Allison had smirked at him, and smooched him on the cheek before dragging him over toward his jeep.

"C'mon, Stiles. We're way more fun than them anyway. Let them talk about their manly wolfy business. We have plotting to do." She had wiggled her eyebrows at him and claimed shotgun, running around the jeep to the passenger side. Lydia had sighed audibly, rolling her eyes and climbed into the back with Kira. The discussion had started about the proper footwear to wear to a gunfight. Kira had advocated combat boots. Allison had argued that any kind of boots worked really. Lydia had chimed in with argument for sensible flats that could be kicked off easily. She'd smacked Stiles in the back of the head to get him to answer. "Sneakers, obviously," he had replied, scrubbing at the back of his head. "And no I'm not going to get into a debate about Nike's vs Reeboks." Their laughter had been loud, and sort of heartwarming.

They were returning from a camping trip. A post-Junior-year-everyone-survived-spring-semester pack celebration which had culminated in the 7 of them having spent a week in the woods on the far side of the nearest National Park. They'd wanted to get away from everything. Everyone leaving their electronics locked in the trunk of the Derek's car, only Stiles cellphone turned on in case there was an emergency back home.

Allison's dad had dropped a hard black gun case in the back of Stiles' jeep as they were saying goodbye, sliding it in under a couple of sleeping bags before kissing Allison on the forehead. "Be safe," he had said, voice weighed down and a bit weary. Allison had looked down at the hidden gun case and raised an eyebrow at him. "You never know," he had said with a half joking smirk. "Just take it. It'll make me feel better." She'd nodded.

"It's only for a week," she'd replied.

"A lot can happen in a week. I think the last year and a half has proven that, more than once." His eyes were sad and the smile had dropped off Allison's face. She'd hugged him tightly.

"Still heading up North?" she had asked. He'd nodded, releasing her from the hug.

"Yes, I'll be back before you are. Call me when you get home," he had ordered, climbing into his SUV. She had waved goodbye, turning to help Scott finish loading the cars. The gun case was still in the back of the jeep. Allison hadn't so much as touched it since her father put it there.

Stiles isn't thinking about the gun now, in this moment, watching trees fly by the window as they take the back roads heading toward home. It had been a good trip. They'd had fun. The wolves had chased each other through the woods. The entire pack had shared stories, gone hiking, and swimming in the river. They'd eaten trail mix and roasted hotdogs and made s'mores. Much bonding had taken place but now Stiles is looking forward to sleeping in his own bed tonight, to a summer of x-box and youtube videos, and probably some research. He wants a summer like last year, mostly quiet and restful and fun. A summer designed to help them gear up for their senior year starting in the fall.

"Well, I prefer braids," Lydia says, joining in the debate on combat ready hairstyles. It should really bother Stiles that the entire ride so far had centered around fashion for the girl who can kick ass, (with one minor detour into proper blade sharpening and care) but he's sort of enjoying this look into the minds of the girls he admires. It's like free insider information. "Seriously," Lydia continues. "Think about it. Braids are fun, they can be fancy, or utilitarian. They keep your hair out of your eyes, and if you pin them in place, they're much harder to grab than a ponytail or say a big. Messy. Bun." She looks pointedly in Allison's direction. Allison laughs, turning to look at Lydia with a huge grin, and any of Stiles lingering resentment about being in the chick car flies right out the open window and the sight of her epically deep dimples. It's really no wonder both Scott and Isaac had fallen head over heels for the girl. Don't even get Stiles started on her heart or her brain or her kick ass and amazingly varied weaponry skills.

"I don't know. I think my buzzcut worked pretty well at avoiding gripping fingers," he throws in just to hear them all laugh again.

"Buzzcut?!" Kira asks, eyes wide and astonished. She looks at Lydia. "You didn't seriously let him have a buzzcut did you?" Lydia smirks.

"I had nothing to do with it. That was back when Stiles was the strange flailing little puppy who liked to follow me around all the time. So glad he grew out of that," she teases. Stiles smirks, shaking his head, glad they have reached a point in their friendship, actual friendship!, where they can joke about it. "Sometimes I kind of miss it," Lydia says almost fondly.

"The puppy-like devotion or the buzzcut?" Kira asks, spurring them into a fresh wave of laughter. Stiles feels his face and ears heat.

"Ha Ha Ha. You all wish you had someone as dedicated to worshiping you as I was to Lydia!" he says over their laughter.

"Was?" Allison teases.

His phone rings then, before he can reply to the good-natured ribbing. He checks the ID, answering it, and hitting speaker.

"Hey, Dad. I'm driving right now, and before you say anything, yes I have you on speaker and," he reaches for Allison's hand puts the phone in it, "Allison is holding it up for me. So no lectures!" he jokes.

"Stiles, where are you?" the line is staticky, but Stiles can hear the edge in his father's voice. Not anger, but fear, but panic.

"We're on our way back. Dad, what's wrong?" he asks. Darting a look at Allison's concerned voice before turning back to the road. He honks twice, and throws on his turn signal, pulling over to the side of the road. He watches Derek do the same, a few yards ahead of them. "Dad?"

"Something's happening. Listen carefully… straight here. Don't stop.. Don…. Home… Sheriff's station. Hurry. Don't argue. Come straight….ere."

"Dad?" he asks, panic clawing at his throat.

"Stiles… attacking… come to the station… now!" and then the call ends. Stiles forces himself to take two deep breaths, and grabs the phone from Allison's slack fingers. He checks the screen 'call dropped.' He redials, but gets a shrewd beeping in his ear, and a message about overloaded phone lines, and directions to try again later. Stiles flings open his door, throwing himself toward Derek's car, where the werewolves in the pack are quickly getting out with concerned faces.

"Stiles!?" Scott calls.

"Phones! Get out the phones!" Stiles yells. Isaac turns to the trunk of Derek's car, and scrambles around for the bag holding everyone else's phones.

"What the hell is going on? Stiles talk to me!? Allison?" Scott asks, watching her jog up behind Stiles.

"We got a call from the Sheriff. He sounded…" She makes a face trailing off, concerned eyes staying on Stiles. Stiles tries dialing again, gets another error message.

"Scared out of his freaking mind!" Lydia finishes. "He sounded terrified." She says catches up to them with Kira in tow.

"It still won't go through!" Stiles says, frustrated and gripping his cellphone in one tight fist.

"He said to come to the Station. Not to go home. Not to stop. And something about attacking," Kira says, looking confused. Scott steps closer to her automatically, protectively, his brow furrowed with worry.

"Ok, Stiles just take a breath. I'm sure he's fine. We'll head straight there," Scott says. Isaac finds the bag with all their cellphones and starts to hand them out. "Everyone try to get through. Isaac, I want you and Allison with Derek, I'll go in Stiles' jeep with Kira and Lydia. We'll keep the cars close enough to hear a shout. If you get through let us know. No stopping until we reach the station. Ok?" Everyone nods, Stiles is already redialing, even as he heads for the jeep.

That's when Lydia starts screaming and screaming and screaming.


	2. Lydia keeps screaming

2.

Lydia keeps screaming for what feels like hours. And she won't stop. Allison climbs into the back of Derek's car with her, cradling her as her voice finally gives out. There's an echoing scream from the woods to their left. And Stiles jumps in reaction. Scott grabs his shoulders.

"Get in the cars. We need to go. Now! No stopping!" Scott guides Stiles into the passenger seat, Kira already climbing into the back. Isaac and Derek don't argue, and no one even contemplates going after the screaming woman in the woods. Something is wrong. Very very wrong. Scott starts the jeep and pulls out on to the road following Derek.

They drive in silence for a few minutes, before Stiles shoves his phone into his pocket giving up for the moment.

"I can't get through…" he says. His voice is soft, scared. His eyes fix on the back bumper of Derek's car, ignoring the car they pass sitting in the middle of the road, back doors left open. "Is she still screaming?" Stiles asks. Scott nods.

"Off and on, she keeps trying to stop it." He glances at Stiles quickly. "She's crying." Stiles nods feeling numb. A car flies up the road toward them, driving too fast to be safe, weaving erratically. Derek darts his car to the far edge of the road, Scott following behind to give them extra room to pass.

"Whose name is she saying?" Stiles asks. Scott swallows thickly.

"Her mom's," Scott answers. Stiles looks away, his eyes closing. 

"We'll get to your Dad, Stiles. He's probably fine," Kira pipes up from the backseat.

"Easy for you to say. Your parents are half way around the world," Stiles replies. Kira flinches.

"Stiles," Scott says, voice a soft warning. Stiles looks away.

"I'm sorry, Kira. I didn't… I didn't mean it."

"It's ok," Kira says, gripping Stiles on the shoulder. "I really wish I'd brought my Katana," she says softly sitting back in her seat.

"Kira," Scott says, navigating slowly around another abandoned car, the road next to it stained with a large pool of blood.

"Yeah?" she asks, eyes sliding swiftly away from the sight.

"Get Allison's gun. I think we're going to need it." Kira twists in her seat instantly, digging through the camping gear in the back to find the hard black plastic case.

When they get to town it is clear something is going on. The streets are pure mayhem, people running from place to place, children crying in their parent's tight grips. It's madness.

Scott follows Derek's car as he takes the most direct route possible to the station. When they're a block or two away they see *them* for the first time. People, but not people. Stiles almost doesn't recognize Mr. Hudson, who has owned and run the grocery store up the street since Stiles was just a baby. He barely looks like himself anymore. His gait is strange, his mouth hanging open and slack. His face and clothing are splattered with blood, and his eyes are just… wrong. Stiles watches in horror as Mr. Hudson lumbers forward toward a man who is frantically packing supplies into the trunk of his car. The man never sees him coming, his head swerves from left to right to check for danger, never seeing it coming up right behind him. Mr. Hudson's hands lock around the other man, and then he opens his mouth and bites down hard on the back of the man's neck, teeth tearing. The man screams, twisting in Mr. Hudson's grip, struggling against him. Stiles sees Mr. Hudson go for the jugular, blood spraying, just before they turn the corner. Stiles nearly pukes on himself but they pull up to the sheriff station and he manages to get the door open in order barf on the concrete instead.

"Stiles?!" Scott yells. He's around the car a second later, pulling Stiles out and checking him over.

"What the fuck is going on!?" Stiles asks pushing himself away. Three's another scream up the street. And they all turn to look.

"Come on, let's get inside!" Derek says, picking up Lydia, who has gone scarily quiet, and carrying her toward the station doors. Allison pauses, eyes trained on another one of the people-not-people lumbering up the street. Isaac grabs Allison, pulling her toward the entrance.

"Allison, we have to move!" he says. Scott slams Stiles' car door, and herds them all toward the building, closing the doors securely behind them all.

The station is quiet, unnervingly so. There's no one at the reception desk, no one at any of the desks inside.

"Dad!?" Stiles calls, pushing past the rest of them to head for his dad's office. Scott tries to grab his arm, but Stiles moves too fast, darting around the corner before he can reach him. But Sheriff Stilinski is there a moment later, relief flooding his face as he pulls Stiles into a full bodied hug. His eyes meet Scott's over Stiles' shoulder.

"Thank God you all made it. Everyone inside," he points at his office door. They pile inside, Derek setting Lydia down on the couch there. Kira kneels beside her, pushing the hair back from her face. She holds out Allison's gun, and the older girl takes it, eyeing Lydia worriedly. Scott closes the door behind them all again. Leaning back against the interior wall, his eyes scanning through the windows. He feels like a caged animal, and he can't stop searching for threats.

"Is she bit? Are any of you scratched?" the Sheriff asks, checking Stiles over for injuries, his movements frantic.

"No. We're all fine. Dad what the hell is going on? What's wrong with those people? Because that was not normal behavior!" Stiles asks. The Sheriff looks tired, exhausted really, and he slumps into the chair behind his desk.

"It started a few days ago. Strange reports on the news. First LA, then San Diego and San Francisco, Sacramento. Soon there were reports from Seattle, Portland, Reno, Vegas. It spread out from all the major cities at once. I thought you were all safer where you were, and we had no reason to think it would spread this far out. But last night it all went to hell. I tried to call, but I couldn't get through. It took hours of trying to get through to you today." He reaches into his lower desk drawer, pulling out his station issued backup piece. He checks it, loading a round into the chamber and handing it to Isaac. "It will be easier to show you. Stay here," he says to Isaac, looking pointedly at Lydia and Kira, who had moved to sit on the couch, Lydia's head pillowed on her lap. "Come with me," he opens the door cautiously, and Scott pushes out to stand beside him as they move quickly through the abandoned station. "It starts with a bite, maybe a scratch. You can't let them get close enough, or it's over," he warns. He unlocks a door, leading down the hallway to the only two small cells the station has.

Scott recoils as soon as the door is open, gagging and reaching up to cover his nose. Stiles coughs, following him closely. Derek frowns, eyebrows pulling together as he steps in behind them, and Allison takes up the rear, her reclaimed gun held tightly in one hand.

"What is it?" Scott asks. The sound of his voice has an immediate effect. Out of the dark corner of the cell on the right hand side there is a sudden movement, and a body slams against the cell bars, hands stretching in the spaces between them and clawing at the air. Stiles jumps back. His dad's hand clamps down on his shoulder.

"I don't know. It's a virus or something. You get bit. You get infected. The fever kills in a few hours, and then, a little while later, you come back."

"You come back?" Derek asks horrified. The sheriff nods. "As what?"

"As that!" the Sheriff says pointing. He steps closer cautiously, careful to stay out of reach. The thing bites in his direction, mouth opening and closing loudly, jaws squeezed through the bars as far as it can. It makes a gurgling moaning sound low down in it's throat.

"It smells dead," Stiles says.

"That's an understatement," Derek quips, leaning against the stone wall, eyes trained on the thing behind the bars. Stiles shoots him a look.

"It smells dead, but it's moving," Stiles finishes.

"We don't know what they are. I've never seen anything like it. But they're insatiable. They run around biting anyone they can find. If you don't get away they kill you. They eat you alive." The Sheriff shakes his head. "And if you're bitten you die and you come back as one of them. We have no idea where it came from or how to stop it. The feds moved in this morning, started quarantining the hospital."

"My mom!?" Scott asks. Sheriff smiles.

"Melissa is fine. She's been pulling extra shifts. She's still down there." He pulls the radio off his shoulder. "Melissa, it's John, over," he releases the button.

"John? Thank God. Something is going on down here. Are the kids back yet? Over." He smiles at Scott.

"They're with me now. What's going on?" he asks. "Over."

"The soldiers… they're shooting the infected. The patients. We need to move." She sounds anxious like she's scared. Scott runs for the door. Stiles, Derek, and the Allison start after him, John calling out for him to wait.

"Scott's coming. Be ready to move. Sit tight. Over."


	3. You didn't have to come with me

3.

"You didn't have to come with me," Scott says, maneuvering the jeep back onto the road. Stiles rolls his eyes at him.

"Like we were going to let you run off all by yourself," Stiles says. "That'll be the day!"

"I appreciate that, Stiles. But I also know you probably wanted to stay with your dad, and Lydia."

"Scott, my dad is fine. And they've got Lydia covered. She'll be safest at Allison's. It's like Fort Knox over there," Stiles replies, eyes scanning the streets around them. They pass three more of those things wandering about and there are fewer people running around now. Stiles can't tell if that's a good thing or not. He tries to ignore the bodies he sees laying here and there, not moving. His hand tightens on the gun in his grip, palm sweaty against the metal. They'd cleaned out the arsenal of the Sheriff's department. Filling bags full of ammo, guns, rifles, and gear. Anything that could be of use. His dad had looked pained the entire time. He felt like he was looting, Stiles knew. But it was necessary, which is the only reason he had done it. Stiles has two full clips of rounds in his pocket, and he is suddenly very glad his Dad had started to teach him gun safety and the basics when he was 13. He might not be a marksman but he knows how to handle a gun. He's also thankful that his dad is even more heavily armed as he takes Isaac and the ladies to Allison's house.

"You didn't have to come either," Scott says quietly, locking eyes with Derek in the rearview mirror. Derek snorts in reaction.

"Someone has to keep an eye on the two of you. Keep you out of trouble."

"Like you, Big Guy, have ever kept us OUT of trouble," Stiles says. He ignores Derek's swatting hand and almost manages to laugh before sobering again. There are unmanned road blocks set up outside the hospital, green government vehicles blocking off the entrances to the parking lots. Scott grimaces and drives up over the curb, cutting across a stretch of grass, and parking on the lawn next to the ER entrance. No one tries to stop them.

"We get in, we find my mom, and we get out. Ok?" Scott says.

"You're the Alpha," Stiles says, getting out, his shoulders tense, and eyes scanning. Derek climbs out behind him. There's the sound of muted gunfire from inside the building, and at the sound of it they bolt for the entrance.

"Stiles, stay between us," Scott orders.

"Yeah, yeah. We've done this how many times before?" Stiles asks. Derek presses up closer behind him.

"Just shut up and let us watch your back," Derek says, shoving him a little. Stiles fights the urge to stop and glare at him again.

The halls are trashed, papers and medical supplies flung here and there, it's like a war zone. Stiles steps over the pool of blood outside one of the exam rooms, and tries not to think about how it got there. The lights flicker over their heads, and they move quietly through the halls. There is the sound of screaming and distant gunfire from deeper in the hospital, and Stiles feels sweat trickle down his spine under his shirt. Scott pauses, closing his eyes and focusing, searching for his mother's scent, or her heartbeat.

"She's on this floor," he says, grimacing at the smell of death, and sound of gunfire. "That direction," he says, taking off quickly down the hallway. Years of visiting the hospital have made navigating almost second nature, but they move cautiously, checking around corners before moving forward.

Scott tracks the sound of her racing heart to the nurse's lounge, the room where he'd spent countless hours working on math homework and eating cafeteria dinners with his Mom when she had to work late.

Scott tries the door, but it won't open. Something heavy has it barricaded. He's hesitant to call for her, not wanting to attract the attention of the soldiers he can hear quickly getting closer.

"Derek," he whispers, planting his shoulder and shoving, his sneakers sliding on worn linoleum. Derek slides past Stiles and helps, bracing both hands on the door above Scott's head and pushing. Whatever is pressed up against the door finally gives, sliding away with a screech. It's dark inside. Scott squeezes through the small opening, and almost immediately has to duck the swinging end of an IV pole. It crashes into the wall right where his head had been. "Mom!?" he asks, hand reaching out to flick on the lights. The pole clangs when it hits the floor, familiar hands grabbing at Scott a second later. 

"Oh God, Scott," she says. Her hair is a mess, little pieces having slipped out of her braid and sticking to her sweaty and terrified face, relief quickly slackening her expression. Scott hugs her tightly. "I'm so glad to see you." She lets him reluctantly go. "We gotta get out of here. They've started shooting the patients," she says, pausing. "Even the healthy ones." The news obviously disturbs her. Scott frowns. Stiles steps around them, sliding further into the room to let Derek all the way inside.

"My dad took everyone to Allison's house, we're heading there too. She's got a virtual arsenal of weaponry to choose from," Stiles explains. Melissa nods, smiling at him.

"That's a good idea, come on." She scoops up her purse, and moves toward the door, but Derek shakes his head, motioning them back. He reaches up flicking the light out.

"Soldiers, get down," he hisses, grabbing Stiles by the plaid shirt and drags him to the coat closet in the corner. He crowds Stiles into the back, getting in behind him, and pulling the door mostly shut, leaving it open just a crack to see through. Scott grabs his mother, ducking down behind the kitchenette counter, covering her back with his body, and trying not to breathe too loudly. She twists around, her hands clenching in his t-shirt her forehead pressing into his shoulder.

After what seems like forever the door creaks back open, and a soldier steps inside, eyeing the barricade, the stainless steel table with three matching chairs piled on top, with caution. The flashlight he has mounted onto his rifle flashes across the room in an even quick sweep. He steps inside further, moving cautiously, keeping his back to the wall. Melissa freezes against Scott's body, hunching closer to him, and he tries to cover her with as much of himself as possible in response. He tightens his grip on her, breathing shallowly and as quietly as he can manage. The steps get closer, and Melissa fights not to whimper in fear.

In the closet, Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to move even an inch. There are hangers and musty coats digging into his back. Derek is pressed all down his front, body tense and ready to react to the slightest movement of the soldier toward either Scott and his Mom or their position in the tiny coat closet. "There really isn't a lot of room in here," Stiles thinks, trying to ignore just how close Derek's body is to his own. The soldier moves toward their door on the back wall, and Derek steps back in reaction, his body colliding with Stiles' in all the wrong places. Derek freezes, his head turning to look at Stiles in the darkness. The put out expression on his face is easy enough to read even in the limited lighting of their hiding spot. Stiles shrugs, and Derek shakes his head, turning his attention back to the soldier. His elbow slides back and catches Stiles right in the sternum. Stiles bites back a grunt, and tightens his fingers on Derek's shoulders, nails biting in retaliation. Stiles kind of sort of hates him right then.

There's a shout out in the hallway, and the pounding of feet, and the soldier lowers his gun, moving quickly back to the door and peeking outside.

"Major," a voice says from outside. "There's more out back. We've been ordered to clear that area, and then report back to base, sir."

"Good. I want every room swept. We're taking no chances," the soldier says, slipping out the door. "Kill them all." Stiles slumps against Derek's back, head falling to rest on Derek's shoulder. They stay that way for another minute, before Derek pushes open the door, and steps out. Scott is already helping Melissa to her feet.

"We need to get out of here," Scott says, moving toward the door.

"Scott, Honey, I totally agree, but first, we need to go shopping," Melissa says, once more grabbing up her purse, she slings the strap over her shoulder, and pulls down the sleeves of her sweater. The three boys share a confused look.

"Shopping?" Stiles asks dubiously.

"Shopping," she declares.


	4. Allison counts rounds of ammunition

4.

Allison counts rounds of ammunition. 200. 400. 600. 800. She switches to Rifle ammo. 100. 200. 300. 400. She counts silencers. 6. She ducks down under her archery cabinet to count the stock of arrows. It's not enough. Not nearly enough. Her hands shake, as she pulls herself back to her feet.

"I thought the only undead monsters we'd ever have to deal with would be Peter and Kate," the voice startles her and she wheels around, dagger in hand and instantly held to Isaac's throat where he's come up behind her. He freezes immediately, swallowing thickly. "Allison," he says softly. He reaches up and wraps his hand around her wrist gently, slowly pulling the knife away from his jugular. The tip just grazes the skin there, making a tiny cut that heals almost instantly. Allison drops her hand.

"I'm sorry. Oh God, I'm sorry Isaac," she says, and surges forward arms slipping around his waist. She buries her face in the side of his throat. "What are we going to do? Lydia? Her Mom?" she says. She looks up at him. "The whole world is going to shit, and this time it isn't the Nemeton. It isn't just here. It's everywhere. There's nowhere to run," she says. He swallows again.

"We're together. The pack will survive this. No matter what happens. We've got each other. And if anyone is prepared for something like this, it's us." His voice is reassuring and she can hear the truth in it.

"But… my dad. Isaac, he told me he would be home by now. And I can't reach him on his phone. What if something happened?" she asks.

"Your dad is one of the toughest guys I've ever met. He's probably fine," he cups a hand to the side of her face, bending down to press his forehead to hers. She closes her eyes, soaking him in. It's comforting having him there.

"Lydia hasn't said anyone else's name has she?" Allison asks. She'd held her best friend as she screamed for almost an hour. Eventually it had tapered off to hoarse whimpers, and mutterings. When she had finally passed out, Allison had handed her off to Kira again, and then come down here to take a break, and survey their supplies.

Isaac freezes against her, and her eyes fly open.

"Isaac?" she says, voice shaking. "Isaac who's name did she say?"

"Danny," he looks pained. "She said Danny's name." Allison pulls away from him, turning to go to Lydia.

"We have to go find him," she says jogging for the door.

"Allison," he says halting in her tracks. "If she says his name, then it's too late." Her shoulders slump, and her face crumples. She turns and slumps backward to lean against the wall of the garage.

"How many more names is she going to say before this is over?" she asks. He steps closer, pulling her into another hug, his long arms winding around her, and holding her tight against him. Isaac doesn't have an answer.

Upstairs Lydia lies in Allison's bed. Kira sits behind her, back to the headboard. She presses a hand to Lydia's shoulder when she stirs, once more whispering a hoarse litany of names. Teachers, neighbors, vague acquaintances, and then, every few names, the word Mommy.

"Lydia," Kira says quietly, rubbing her arm. "Shh, come on Lydia." Lydia moves into the hand, quieting somewhat. "Don't listen to the voices. Listen to mine. Lydia, you're safe." Lydia goes pliant, falling asleep again. Kira climbs carefully off of the bed, standing and moving to the window. They have the blinds down, and Kira peaks between them at the street below. There's another one of those things walking slowly by. They have to be quiet, the Sheriff had warned. He and Isaac had hung blankets up over all the windows downstairs, double checking all the windows and doors.

The door opens behind her, and she turns to see Allison there. She looks shaken, and Kira goes to her, hugging her.

"Ally," she says softly. "You ok?" Allison shrugs, nodding toward Lydia.

"I'll be fine. How's she doing?" Allison moves closer to Lydia, kneeling beside the bed. Kira sighs.

"She's in and out. Never really seems to be coherent. Just keeps listing names. Here," she picks up a pad of paper from the far nightstand, handing it to Allison. "I only recognized a few." Allison reads down the list, wincing at a familiar name here and there. Her thumb rubs across Danny Mahealani. "Allison what are we going to do? She can't stay like this. She can't eat or sleep or think. This can't be good for her," Kira says. Allison reaches out for Lydia's hand. Lydia's eyes ease open, and she blinks quickly, focusing on Allison's face.

"Allison," he whispers, hand turning under Allison's to grip her fingers.

"Hey," Allison says softly. Lydia winces, reaching for her throat.

"I was screaming?" Lydia says. Her voice is hoarse, scratchy. Allison nods. "A lot?" Lydia asks. Allison nods again.

"Yes. Something's happened. There are a lot of people dying." Lydia's forehead creases and she nods. She knows, her eyes filling with tears.

"My mom," she says brokenly, Allison nods. "Danny," Lydia whispers. Allison nods again, wiping at her eyes. Lydia sighs.

"Did you hear anything else?" Allison asks. Lydia rolls on to her back. She keeps her hand wrapped tight around Allison's.

"The voices. They say it's not safe here. That we have to get out of town. Too many people. Too much death-not-death. I think I'll be ok now. The voices…" she swallows painfully, and Kira hands her a bottle of water. She sips at it, closing her eyes and concentrating. "They say that we need to get out of here. And soon."

"But Lydia, what about my Dad?" Allison whispers. Lydia smiles at her.

"I haven't heard anything. I'd tell you right away. I promise," She pushes herself into a sitting position, and reaches for Kira's hand too. "We need to stick together. And we need to move. Staying put for too long will get us killed." Allison nods.

"When we go I'll leave him a note," she says. Lydia nods.

"Sheriff Stilinski, he says that he knows about a cabin, out in the woods, far away from town. He thinks it would be a good place to regroup. We need to get ready to leave here soon. And," Kria pauses, "we probably won't ever come back," she adds. Allison nods in agreement.

"Scott, Stiles, and Derek went to go get Mrs. McCall. When they get back, we'll all sit down and decide what to do. We need to make a plan."

"Food and Water. We need to get Food and Water and Medicine," Lydia explains.

Allison stands up, moving to her closet. She digs out her black Backpack. And starts digging through the clothes in the closet. She pulls out jeans, her second best boots, and a thick sweater. Then she moves to her dresser, pulling out underwear, and socks, and a few of her sturdier bras, topping off the pile with a few t-shirts and tank tops. She crams it all inside, and drops it by the door. Lydia and Kira watch her scan across the room, looking for anything else of value. Lydia frowns.

"Allison, you don't only have to take things necessary for survive with you," Lydia says. Allison rubs at her forehead, and nods. She sits down at her vanity, pulls out her hairbrush, a container of hair ties, and tosses that into a pile, and then reaches into the drawer. There' a small photo album she and Lydia had made the year before. It has photos of all of them, but also photos of her Mom and Dad, from before. Even one of her and Kate from when she was little. There's photos of her with Scott, and with Isaac, with all of them. She runs her fingers across it, and adds that to the pile, then goes to her jewelry box. There's a necklace her dad had given her, a pure silver fleur-de-lis. It was the symbol of Argent, of her family. She slips it over her head, tucking it down her shirt. That's all she wants. All she needs. Anything else would just weigh her down.

"We'll go by the house, Lydia," she promises, packing the things away in her bag. "Just to make sure…" Lydia's face crumples but she nods.

"Ok," she whispers. Kira puts an arm around her, and Lydia turns into her. "Ok."


	5. Got everything? We need to go

5.

"Got everything? We need to go," Derek asks impatiently. He has a bag of medical supplies slung over his shoulder. Suture kits, sterile pads, bandages, saline, IV bags, scalpels, and syringes. He watches Melissa and Stiles pick over the meds available in the pharmacy. Scott stands at the door, watching their exit.

"We're going as fast as we can, Derek!" Stiles replies, scanning across all the names for things that sound like antibiotics.

"These too," Melissa replies, using her keys to open a secured cabinet. "Pain medication. We have to take anything that could be of use. Who knows what will happen," she dumps the pills into the bag on the counter behind them. Stiles' hand pauses at the bottle of Adderall, contemplating. Melissa's hand pats him on the back. "Grab it, Stiles. You'll be thankful later." He snatches up the huge bottle, and the one behind it, tossing them both into the bag too.

"Anything else?" he asks. She scans across the shelves, scooping up some epinephrine.

"I think that's everything. We should go," she nods at Stiles, shoving the last of the medication into the bag, and letting Stiles heft it onto his shoulder. She takes a deep breath and moves toward the door. "Now, we're ready." Scott leads them down the hall, Derek taking the rear. They move back the way they came. The hospital is quieter, the sounds of soldier fading to the far side of the East wing. They haven't heard gunfire in a while, but still they move cautiously, heading back West, toward the ER entrance where they'd left the car. They make it out of the hospital without seeing anyone, climbing into the jeep with little fanfare. Stiles reluctantly climbs into the back with Melissa, squeezing his too tall frame into the small space. He dumps the bag of meds into the back, behind the seats. Melissa lays her head back, taking a deep steadying breath.

"We are going to need to get out of town," Stile says once they're on the road again, heading across town toward Allison's house.

"We need to think strategically. What else do we need?" Derek asks. "We have medical and weapons covered. But we're going to need gas. And a lot of it."

"We'll stop at that station just off Main. The little one no one ever seems to go too. We'll fill up the tank, see if they have any containers," Scott says. Stiles nods in agreement.

"I want to make a stop," Stiles says.

"Where? For what?" Derek asks. Stiles grimaces.

"Lydia's house," Stiles replies. Scott meets his eyes in the rearview mirror and nods.

"Ok," he agrees.

"Scott," Derek says, voice questioning.

"We need to stop. We'll be quick." Scott replies, taking the next left.

Lydia's house is huge, big and grand. Her mother had won it in the divorce. The front door is open. That is not a good sign. Derek and Melissa stay at the car, keeping watch, while Stiles and Scott go inside. Stiles has his gun in his hand as Scott takes point, easing the door open the rest of the way. The house is quiet.

"Hello?" Scott calls. There's no sound, no movement. They step into the foyer, heading through the house looking for signs of life. Scott smells the blood first. There's a streak of it on the kitchen floor, and the patio door is open. Scott steps up to the glass, sliding it closed slowly. There's movement in the yard. And then suddenly she's there, lurching toward them.

"Scott!" Stiles shouts, pulling him away from the glass as she flings herself at it, hands pounding. Stiles avoids looking at her eyes. She looks too much like Lydia. He can't stand the thought of seeing her that way. Mrs. Martin makes that same moaning gurgling sound, slamming herself against the glass.

"We should go. At least we know. Come on," he tugs at Stiles' sleeve.

"She… Scott we can't leave her like this," Stiles pleads. Scott hesitates, but nods. He flexes his hand, popping out his claws. He swallows thickly, and moves to the door, but this time it's Stiles who stops him.

"No. It's contagious Scott. We don't know if it's blood transmitted. You can't use your claws, and definitely no teeth. It's too dangerous," his face crumples as he motions to the gun. "I… I'll do it." He swallows thickly, switching off the safety, and taking aim. He holds himself like his father taught him, aiming carefully, relaxing his shoulders. He finds his shot, and freezes. The breath hitches in his throat. And he feels like someone has a hand around his heart. He can't do it. A panic attack seizes his chest, and he whirls away. Scott grabs him by the shoulders steadying him even as he doubles over.

"Stiles. Stiles it's ok," Scott says. "Breathe man. I'll do it. Come on," he unclasps Stiles fingers from the gun, taking it away from him. Stiles hunches down further, trying to make himself smaller. He presses a hand to the center of his chest, trying to calm his breathing. He jumps, flinching violently when the gun goes off, glass shattering and the bang echoing through the kitchen. "It's fine! We're ok!" Scott calls, probably for Derek's benefit. Stiles wipes at the tears on his face, turning away from the back wall of windows. He doesn't want to see. That's when they hear the barking. A sharp sudden yip from upstairs.

"Prada!" Stiles shouts, straightening and running for the stairs.

"Stiles!" Scott shouts running after him. "Stiles, don't!" Stiles is already at the stairs. Scott races past him, taking point. "We have to be careful!" Scott says. He hands the gun back to Stiles. "Take it," he orders. Stiles does, flipping the safety back into position. Scott follows the sound of barking down the hall to Lydia's room, where the door is closed. He opens the door cautiously and Stiles reaches down for Prada, who looks no worse for wear. They step inside Lydia's room.

"We should grab some things for her," Stiles says. He closes the door putting the dog down. "Get her laptop," Stiles orders. Scott reaches for the laptop on the desk, unplugging it and sliding it into the laptop case. He also grabs the hard-drive that Lydia keeps on the bookshelf. He stuffs that inside, and turns to watch Stiles. He's shoving clothes into a bag. Warm things, comfortable things. No heels or skirts or fancy blouses. He hesitates only a second before opening her underwear drawer. He grabs at random, stuffing into the bag while trying desperately not to look. Scott scans across the bookshelves, looking for anything else Lydia might want. He finds Prada's pink leash, and stuffs it into a pocket, and then turns back to Stiles. He's picking through Lydia's vanity. He scoops up a pink bag, a hairbrush, and the expensive French perfume Lydia has been favoring lately. Scott raises an eyebrow at him.

"She loves that shit," Stiles replies. He stuffs everything into a duffle bag, and then goes to Lydia's bedside table. He's spent enough time in Lydia's room in the last year to know what Lydia goes back too, what her hands drift toward when she's thinking or worried. He pulls out the small jewelry box she keeps in the drawer there, and stuffs it into his pocket, and the scoops up Lydia's ipod, and charger. His hands drift across the books there, and snatch up the skinny little photo album, Lydia has tucked between two Math books. It has photos of Lydia's parents he knows, of Jackson, and of Aiden. Of all the things she'd lost but still loves. He slides it into the top of the bag, and turns to Scott. "Ok," Scott nods. He takes the bag from Stiles.

"You get the dog," he says offering up the leash. Stiles rolls his eyes, but corrals Prada, and clips the leash onto her collar. He scoops her up, not wanting to risk it.

"We can grab her food on the way out," Stiles says, waiting for Scott to move toward the door. Scott listens carefully before rolling his eyes.

"Derek is getting impatient," he says opening the door and heading for the stairs.

"Derek can go fuck himself," Stiles replies loudly, knowing the older grumpier werewolf can hear, and following Scott down the stairs, the dog curled under one arm. He tucks the gun into the back of his jeans and snags Lydia's red leather handbag off the back of a kitchen chair. It's designer he knows but it will work for this purpose. He heads to the pantry and dumps all of Prada's dog food inside, slinging it over his shoulder, and being careful not to look out the back patio. Derek is glaring when they appear out the front door, Melissa bouncing in worry. Stiles hands her the dog, and climbs into the back. Shoving the bags into the already over loaded cargo area.

"Let's go," Scott says starting the jeep. "We've been gone too long. They'll be worrying."

"Susan?" Melissa asks. Stiles shakes his head, and looks away, letting Prada crawl up into his lap to lick his face. He doesn't want to talk about it.


	6. It's late when they the jeep pulls up

6.

It's late when they the jeep pulls up outside the Argent house, nearly dark. Isaac is keeping watch and he calls out quietly to have someone open the garage. John runs to get it, letting them pull inside, and then quickly closing the garage door behind them. He's there when they get out of Stiles' car. The relief Stiles feels at seeing him is palpable. He hands the dog off to Scott and lets his father pull him into a huge hug. If he clings a little bit, no one says anything.

"What took you guys so long?" John asks Scott over Stiles' shoulder. "You were only supposed to go get your Mom." He pulls her into a hug next once he finally releases Stiles, visually checking them all over in turn. Melissa clings to him a little too, some of the fight going out of her posture.

"We made a few detours," Derek explains. He starts unloading the car. Allison appears just then, and actually laughs with real joy when Prada jumps out of Scott's arms to go to her.

"Oh, Lydia will be so glad to see you!" she says to the dog. Stiles perks up.

"She's awake?" he asks. Allison nods and smiles a little sadly.

"She's in the living room with Kira," Allison says. She hands the dog to Stiles and then turns back to the assembled group in the garage. "We should start packing essentials in the SUV maybe," she pats the back of her Mom's old black Yukon. Scott and Derek seem to agree. It's bigger then Stiles' jeep, with plenty of cargo room. She locates the keys on the wall leading into the house and pops the rear hatch, helping Scott and Derek start to load jugs of gasoline into the rear compartment, to be later followed by the camping gear, and the medical supplies.

"We won't be able to take my jeep with us will we?" Stiles asks his dad. John frowns at him, shaking his head a bit sadly. Stiles nods. "I figured. I'll take Prada to Lydia. When you guys are done, I think we need should probably have that pack meeting."

"Good idea. Let everyone know?" Scott asks.

"Yeah man, of course. Come on, Melissa," he turns to lead her inside the house. But Allison stops him.

"Stiles, there's something you should know. Lydia, she was saying names earlier," Allison says. Stiles steels himself to hear something painful. "She said Danny's name, and a few others. Kira made a list." Stiles nods, looking away. He hears Scott make a sort of pained sound. Danny was their friend, a good person, smart and kind, but out of everyone in the pack Stiles and Lydia had been closest to him. He was one of the few people in town that wasn't pack, but wasn't an enemy either. He was friendly with them and fully in the know, but preferred to keep his ass out of the danger zone. Stiles had never really blamed him.

"Ok, I… Can I look it over later? The list?" he asks. Allison nods. Scott starts toward him, but Stiles waves him away.

"I'm ok. It's... It's ok," Stiles says. He closes his eyes, presses the palms of his hands to them, pressing hard, and sighs. He opens them after a minute and nods at them all, letting his dad squeeze his shoulder before turning and leaving the garage. There isn't really anything else to say. He tugs on Prada's leash to get her moving.

Melissa diverts to the kitchen, but Stiles continues on to the living room. Lydia is curled up on the couch, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Isaac sits on the arm next to her feet talking to her quietly, while Kira keeps watch out the front windows, eyes constantly scanning the street outside. Stiles scoops up Prada.

"Lydia?" Stiles calls. She sits up, head swinging in his direction and eyes going wide.

"Is that!? Prada!?" she asks. Stiles sets the dog down again, unsnapping the leash. She barks once, scrambling across the living room and up onto Lydia's lap. Lydia buries her face in Prada's black and white fur, crying a little in relief and happiness. Stiles walks closer, Lydia's duffle bag over his shoulder. He sets her laptop down next to the couch, and drops the bag at her feet.

"I couldn't just leave her there. We, umm…" he motions to the bag. "We brought you some clothes and your laptop, oh and," he pulls the jewelry box out of his pocket and offers it to her. Her eyes go wide, and she takes it from him gratefully.

"Thank you, Stiles," she whispers, reaching for his wrist to pull him down beside her. He shrugs reaching out to scratch Prada behind the ears. She holds the box carefully, fingers tracing the wood cut pattern on the top. "How did you know to…" she trails off and Stiles just looks at her until she half smiles. "Oh…," she says softly.

"I notice things," Stiles says. Isaac snorts, standing up from the end of the couch to slouch against the wall.

"Scott wants a pack meeting. As soon as they're done in the garage," Melissa tells them entering the room. She bends to check on Lydia. "How are you doing, Sweetie?" she reaches out to press her fingers to Lydia's raw throat. Lydia grimaces.

"Ok. Just sore. And I'm really tired," Lydia explains. Melissa nods, pulling out a flashlight from her scrub pocket and telling Lydia to say ahh. Lydia does so and Melissa looks down her throat.

"It's red. Raw. Try not to talk too much. We can try gargling with salt water if you'd like, but resting it is really best." Lydia nods. Melissa hands her one of the bottles of water. "Cold water should feel good for now. Drink this."

"Thank you," Lydia says taking it from her and cracking it open to take a sip. "We need to start planning. We need supplies if we're going to have even half a chance of surviving this mess," Lydia says. Melissa nods, fully agreeing, and pushes herself up to stand again.

"We took what we could from the hospital. And we stopped and got some gas. We should try to get some more tomorrow. But we can talk about that when they finish packing up the SUV. They're moving everything we have gathered so far there, so we can run if we have too." Melissa explains, she walks to the far end of the couch and sits down next to Stiles. Isaac sits again, and reaches out to rest a hand on her shoulder. She covers it with her own smiling up at him fondly, her adoptive son. In the year that Isaac had been living with Scott's family, he'd gotten extremely close with Melissa. Stiles turns away from them, his chest feeling tight with that little bit of jealousy he'd been fighting recently, and leans down to grab Lydia's duffle bag.

"I grabbed you some clothes. Stuff you might need. Dog food for Prada. Oh and this," He pull out the photo album, showing her the light blue cover. He tucks it quickly back away when her face crumples at the sight of it. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…" he trails off awkwardly. She shakes her head, setting Prada down, and reaching for the album. She takes it from the bag, studying the cover with an unnaturally soft expression on her face, before pressing the flat of it to her chest, and folding her arms across it.

"Don't," she says. "Stiles, you brought me the only three things I could possibly have wanted from that house. Besides…" She trails off her eyes going a little glassy with tears. "My mom." She sniffs a little before going tense. "Stiles, she isn't…" she bites back the words.

"No. No, Lydia, she isn't one of those things. We made sure," he tells her. She closes her eyes sinking back into the couch corner, pulling her knees to her chest, and folding her arms across them. The book and jewelry box end up pressed into her stomach. Prada yaps once, nudging under her arm to climb into the small space left under her chin. Prada snuggles in, licking at Lydia's face to try and cheer her up.

"Thank you, Stiles," she whispers, voice scratchy, she reaches for his hand and gives it a squeeze. "For everything."

Derek walks in a moment later and flops down on the opposite couch as ungracefully as possible. He looks exhausted, a little hollow eyed. His eyes meet Stiles' and hold for a moment before they both look away. Scott sits down next to Derek, and Stiles' Dad sits on his other side. Allison perches on the arm of Stiles' couch next to Lydia, and Kira repositions herself at the windows so she can see outside and still participate in the coming conversation. They have all assembled for the first time since this whole thing started. 9 people. It seems like so many and so little at the same time. Stiles suddenly misses Danny fiercely. He had never been that active in the whole supernatural shenanigans they often went through, preferring to keep his distance from the "crazy shit" but he really had been smart, and reliable, and a good person. Stiles doesn't want to know how he died. Lydia's mom is bad enough.


	7. So? Scott asks

7.

"So?" Scott asks. He leans forward elbows braced on his knees and hands clasped in front of him. He's awkward with them as a group, unsure, especially with his Mom and Stile's Dad in attendance. He's become a very informal alpha in the past year. He treats them all as equal members of the pack, regardless of species and supernatural ability (or lack thereof), respecting them all for their contributions and personalities. He likes to get opinions, tap into what everyone thinks and knows and wants, even if he is the final authority on what they, as a pack, decide to do. He knows how to talk to each of them in smaller groups or one-on-one. But once you sit them all down for a big meeting like this, he flounders just a little. Stiles' Dad thinks it's a sign of his youth and inexperience. The first time they'd had one of these meetings John had smiled the whole way home, regardless of horrible news they'd been discussing. "He's going to be great, Stiles. He just needs a little more confidence first. He'll get there." It's a good thing Scott has Stiles, who sometimes has way more confidence than the situation warrants.

"Yep," Stiles says sitting up more. Lydia squeezes his hand one more time and then lets it go. "Apparently the world is ending or at least gone to shit. Do we know how far this stuff has spread?" Stiles asks. "You said most of the West Coast was affected. What about the rest of the US? The rest of the world?" Scott smiles at him a little, even as Stiles' dad starts talking.

"Honestly it's hard to tell. The news reports were so strange. They almost treated it like a huge hoax for the first few hours. Then things got scary pretty fast. The reports were all over the pace. New York, Chicago, Philly, DC. It practically popped up everywhere all at one time. No one knows where it started. The first we heard about locally was LA. And damn, it spread fast," he explains.

"So, there's nowhere safe?" Isaac asks. He folds his arms across his chest. He looks a little grey.

"We simply don't know," Melissa says. "Look, kids, I wish he had some answers for you. But we don't. When the news reports started, and everyone realized it was real, it was like people lost their minds. The hospital started getting bombarded by calls and patients who feared they were getting sick, before the virus or whatever it is even hit our area. People thought they were sick when they weren't. People got scared, and scared people aren't rational."

"The station was overrun by calls. Fights, car accidents, people looting. Then the infected showed up. We lost most of the force the first day. The cops are the ones who dive in and try and pull people off of other people. No one warned us we'd get bitten and infected," John adds, his voice strained. Stiles looks away from him. His father has always cared about every man and woman under his command. And this is the second time they'd been massacred by monsters. The third time if you counted the bombing. Stiles counts the bombing. "That's why we need to get out of here. Right now, people are hunkered down in their homes trying to wait it out. But I don't think this is something you can just hide through. You have to run from it. Keep moving."

"Then that's what we'll do. We're leaving Beacon Hills. It's too late tonight to go back out. I don't like not being able to see these things coming. In the morning we'll head out. Get supplies, regroup here. And decide when to leave for good. Anyone with any objections?" Scott says. No one says anything. But Allison clears her throat. "Allison?" Scott says, his voice going sort of soft.

"My Dad," she says, the worry in her voice makes Stiles look back to Scott. "I know I can't stay here and wait for him. But I want to leave him a note, a map or something to tell him how to get where we're going. Just in case. It's no guarantee but it's something." Scott looks at Stiles' dad, who nods in agreement.

"I think that's doable. We should put it somewhere no one else will look. Your family is known for being well stocked in the gun department, Allison. It's one of the reasons I don't want to stay here too long. The kind of people who excel in these types of crisis situations often aren't the kind you want hanging around. Especially when you have something they want. We don't need them coming after us," John explains.

"I'll figure out somewhere to hide it. Somewhere only he would think to look," Allison promises.

"Any other objections?" Scott asks. No one raises a hand or says a word. "Ok. Good. Tomorrow we go for food, drinking water, and more gas. We need to be able to hunker down in the cabin for as long as possible. Let things play out for a while. But there's a lot of us, and that means we will need a lot of food and water."

"I want to head out to the Loft in the morning. The books and supplies I have there can't be replaced," Derek says. Scott takes a deep breath and nods.

"We should head by the vet clinic as well. Last I heard from the Doc he was chasing down some lead down in South America, but he might have left something of use back in the clinic." He watches everyone nod their agreement. "Starting now, no one goes anywhere alone. Does anyone else need to run home for something that's urgent? Clothes we can get anywhere," Scott asks. Stiles shifts in his seat.

"I need to. I have a lot of the books Deaton loaned me up in my room, along with some Wolfsbane and some mountain ash. We should probably take it all with us." Scott turns to Derek.

"That's the same direction as your place. Can you take him with you?" he asks. Derek tilts his head in agreement. Scott breathes a sigh of relief. "Sheriff," he says turning to Stiles' dad.

"I don't think I'm technically a Sheriff anymore, Scott. Why don't we just go with John for now huh?" he interrupts. Scott smiles a little crookedly but agrees.

"Ok, John," he shares a look with Stiles that has them both chuckling a little in teenage glee. "Let Stiles know if there's anything you need from the house." John nods. "Mom, is there anything you need? I have a few books up in my room too. It won't take me long to run over there." Melissa nods.

"I'll make you a list."

"Isaac I want you to stay here. I want one wolf with the main group at all times, just as a precaution," Isaac nods, looking determined. "Same thing with you. Let me know what you want and I'll try and get it for you. Kira?" he turns toward his girlfriend sitting behind him.

Kira smiles at him from over by the windows.

"I just really really want my katana. If we're going to be fighting these things, I'll feel better having it with me." Scott smiles back at her.

"You can come with me," he offers. She nods. "We'll hit your house, mine, and the clinic. I think that's everything for tonight. We all need something to eat and we need to try and keep quiet. Sheriff, sorry, John says these things are attracted by sound. We'll take shifts on watch. One in the front of the house, one in the back."

After dinner, Scott makes his way upstairs to Allison's bedroom. Everyone else is trying to get some rest downstairs, and Scott just needs a few minutes alone. He sits on the edge of Allison's bed and stares out her bedroom window. He watches what looks like a human being stumbling up the street. His gait is wavering, his clothes torn, and even at night, Scott can see he's covered in blood. It doesn't take long for Scott to pin this person as no longer a person.

Scott doesn't want to think of them that way. He doesn't ever want to be the one who has to decide when a person stops being a person. It feels too much like playing God. And Scott has never wanted that. He moves closer to the window, watching wide eyed as the figure moves further up the street, getting closer and closer. He watches it until it's out of his view, crossing in front of the house. He closes his eyes and zeroes in on its stumbling steps as they go right past the yard, and continue on up the street deeper into the neighborhood. Scott turns around and lets himself slide down the wall to rest on the floor under the window. He tilts his head back and sighs.

It's his job to keep the pack safe. He is, after all, the alpha. They're his to protect. The problem is that Scott is only 17 and he has absolutely no idea where to go from here. He stays there, watching shadows dance on the ceiling until Isaac comes to get him so he can do his shift on watch.


	8. Stiles wakes to a shout and a slamming

8.

Stiles wakes to a shout and a slamming door. He's on a pallet on the living room floor. He'd had his turn keeping watch around midnight. He'd spent his time up in the master bedroom watching the backyard for any sign of the… things. He's still not sure what to call them. He'd heard screaming around 1am but it had been distant, faint. He'd done his best to ignore it. This screaming, however, is close, right out front. He jumps to his feet, kicking off blankets and scrambling across the room. Kira is blinking sleep out of her eyes, and struggling up as well. Melissa too is jumping into action. Stiles rushes to the front windows, and pulls back the blanket. He sees Scott and Derek out on the front lawn. It's just barely dawn, but Stiles makes out a half dozen of the not dead things closing in on the two of them. He rushes for the door but his dad stops him, a hand on his shoulder. Stiles turns to follow his father's line of site. Scott has a garden rake, Derek a long pipe.

Stiles flinches from the carnage, watching them fight people who probably used to be Allison's neighbors. Scott swings at one hard, the rake ripping into the woman's head like it's an overripe watermelon. She goes down and stops moving. Derek jabs at a second with the shovel. It slices into the man's chest, but he doesn't even react, just keeps clawing in Derek's direction. Derek pulls the shovel free and strikes again and then a third time. This time he shoves hard to knock the guy down. He picks up the shovel bringing it down right in the man's face. By then there's another on Scott. He kicks her away, swinging the rake at a third. They're trying not to get any blood on themselves. Kira pushes past Stiles, trying for the door.

"Let me out!" She shouts, "I can help them!"

"Kira," John protests. She squeezes between him and the door, plants a foot against the wall and pushes back against him. John stumbles backward at her shove, surprised at her strength and dexterity. She gets the door open before he can react. John has it closed again before Stiles can follow her outside.

Kira takes a running leap across the lawn and grabs for a tree branch. She uses the momentum to fling herself forward feet first. The force of the kick takes one of the things' head clear off. Stiles is kind of grossly impressed. By then both Derek and Scott have managed to take down one more each. When Kira drops out of the tree she's face to face with the last one, and he's moving fast. She puts her hands up, eyes going wide. Scott shouts her name, running toward her, but before Scott can reach her electricity arches out of her hands and strikes the walking corpse coming toward her. It's body arches backward, stumbling away, muscles contracting and spasming. Kira steps towards it and it falls down. Kira stops the flow of electricity, and lets Scott pull her backward, away from the body. It goes still, and stops moving, its clothes smoking. It doesn't get up again. The previously severed head, however, opens and closes its mouth repeatedly from its spot on the front lawn with no sign of stopping. Stiles barely manages keeps down what little is left in his stomach from last night's dinner. Derek, Kira, and Scott come back inside, out of breath and looking vaguely horrified.

"Well, that's one way to start the day," Isaac quips from the doorway, scrubbing a towel through his wet hair. "Who's next for the shower?"

Derek is even more quiet than usual in the car. He heads for the loft first. Stiles loses count of how many of the things he spots on the way there.

"Corpses?" he says out loud. Derek shoots him a look but doesn't reply.

"Dead Heads?" Stiles says. Derek frowns but doesn't bother looking at him. "Deadies?" Stiles offers. This time Derek scoffs shaking his head.

"Shut up, Stiles," he replies.

"I can't keep calling them 'people-not-people,' or 'things' in my head," Stiles says. Derek doesn't reply, but his shoulders are tense, so Stiles decides to drop it. Neither of them says another word until they get to Derek's building.

"Come on," Derek demands getting out of the car. Stiles moves quickly to follow him. He looks around anxiously.

"I half expected you to leave me in the car like a dog."

"It's illegal to leave a dog in the car. Don't you know anything?" Derek says. He stares up at the building and cocks his head to the side listening carefully. Derek's loft is on the old industrial side of town. It's typically a pretty deserted area, with lots of abandoned buildings, and a virtually nonexistent human population. It was the perfect place for a young werewolf prone to attracting trouble. It must pass the hearing test because he nods at Stiles, moving toward the door. Just outside the entrance he stops and turns to face Stiles.

"Listen to me. This is dangerous. You stay behind me. If I say run you run. You keep your gun out and the safety off. And if you see any of these… things coming at you, you shoot them in damn head. Not the chest or the gut or the shoulder. The head. Got it?"

It's the wild look in Derek's eyes that quells Stiles' natural instinct to crack a joke. Now isn't the time. He feels his heart pounding with anxiety already.

"Ok," he agrees. He pulls the gun from the thigh holster his father had insisted on, readying it to fire under Derek's critical eye. The building turns out to be empty, no sound or movement on their entire trip up the stairs.

Derek starts packing as soon as they've done a sweep of the loft. Stiles watches the door as Derek fills a box with book after book. He adds a small wooden chest to the box, and wraps a fancy looking dagger with a t-shirt before packing it away. Then he fills a black trash bag with jeans and underwear, Henleys, and t-shirts. He grabs a pair of sneakers from the bottom of his closet, a couple of sturdy belts, and a spare pair of boots and calls it done.

"That's all?" Stiles asks. Derek raises one impressive eyebrow in question. "Nothing sentimental? A knick knack? A photograph? Something with an emotional meaning?" Derek's frown seems to somehow get just a little bit more surly than usual.

"Everything I've ever owned that had sentimental value was burned in the fire Stiles. Not much has happened in the 8 years since that has really inspired any sort of sentimental attachment to an inanimate object," he explains. He starts for the door, but after a few steps he pauses, setting the box of books down and running back upstairs. Stiles calls after him but Derek gives him no explanation. When he returns he's got a too large but very familiar black leather jacket flung over one arm, and a toothbrush tucked behind his ear. "Let's go," he says, laying the jacket over the top of the box and picking it back up. He nudges the bag of clothes in Stiles direction and ignores Stiles' smirk. Stiles grabs the top of the bag and drags it toward the door just to piss Derek off. It works. "Pick it up!" Derek growls without turning around to look at him. Stiles fights down a grin.

"Ok. Ok. You don't have to yell," he teases, and he keeps teasing him, all the way down the hallway, about Derek's newfound secret ability to be a sentimental sap. Derek valiantly ignores him down three flights of stairs until they reach the last landing. Then he stops suddenly, and holds out a hand to halt Stiles' forward progress.

"Wha?" Stiles starts, only to stop talking midway through the question because he hears it, that moaning gurgling sound that Stiles has started to dread with his whole being. Derek pushes him back up a few steps, and then continues down and approaches the door. He eases open the metal door a few inches to peak out. He closes it again carefully. He braces his forehead against the doorframe and Stiles watches him breathe out slowly and silently, his shoulders slumping. He holds up 4 fingers without turning to look at Stiles.

Stiles slumps down to sit on the step and rests his head in his hands. They're stuck here, with no way out, surrounded by who knows how many of these things, (because Stiles does not, in any way shape or form, just blindly accept that there is only four of them), with no way to call for help. Derek wedges the box of books against the door, climbs gingerly up the steps to tap Stiles on the shoulder, and then motions Stiles back up the stairs. Stiles goes willingly, moving as quietly as possible. Two floors up Derek pauses at a window on a landing that looks down over the front of the building. He and Stiles look out. There are definitely more than four of the things down there. Stiles counts 7, with another lumbering up the street slowly toward them. They are milling around the building, but not attacking. Yet. Stiles shakes his head. They're fucked.


	9. We're fucked

9.

"We're fucked," Stiles whispers. Derek scoffs.

"Don't be such a pessimist," Stiles turns to look at him, waiting, expression expectant. "If we're fast, we can probably make it to the car." Stiles' jaw drops.

"You can't be serious!" he hisses. "How are we going to run and defend ourselves, and get the car doors open, all while carrying that box of books and your clothes. There is no way the two of us are going to run out there and try and out run an entire group of these things. We'll get bitten," he nearly growls the last sentence, and fights the urge to punch Derek right in the jaw. "And I really don't want to die and come back as one of those things. Because that would be really fucking shitty, ok!?"

"Fine. You stay here then. I'll run out, start the car, lead them away, and come back for you. Does that work better, master plan maker?" Derek asks, arms folding across his chest as he leans down into Stiles space. That type of intimidation had stopped working on Stiles midway through his first quarter of Junior year. So he rolls his eyes, and shoves at Derek's shoulder, pushing him away.

"No, because that's just as fucking stupid, with a side helping of idiocy, and a nice garnish of Messiah complex!" he half shouts. There's a bang from downstairs, someone or something pounding on the main entrance. Stiles takes several long deep breaths and turns away. He scrubs a hand through his hair, and turns back to find Derek watching him.

"Ok, ok. Look, they're slow, and they're stupid. They act only on instinct. If one of us runs out there, they'll be chased. Those things can probably be drawn away. But that also means the runner could get surrounded, penned in, and over run. That would not be good. So we need to think of an alternative," Stiles looks out the window, ignoring the growing mob of things outside the building. They stand in silence for one minute, then two, while Stiles tries to breathe and think and plan.

"Stiles, I don't want too, but it's our only option. One of us has to go. And now! Before that group gets any bigger. I'm stronger and faster, and we don't even know… I could be completely immune to whatever this is. I'm going." Derek for the stairs, but Stiles reaches for him, stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Stop. I have an idea. A good one!" he whispers excitedly.

That's how he ends up crouching on the roof of the building next to the roof access door, watching Derek stomp and scream at the edge of the roof. It would be funny if the world wasn't ending horrifically all around them. Stiles can hear the people-not-people at ground level kick it up a notch in reaction. Slowly, Derek walks along the front of the building shouting to them, and leading them further and further to the left. He turns the corner, and they seem to follow him. He looks back at Stiles and gives a nod, then he crouches and jumps, leaping off the roof of the four story loft, to land with a grunt on the roof to the three story building next to it. He'll keep doing this, leading the things at ground level further and further away from his building, Stiles, and the car.

Stiles ducks back inside and hurries as quietly as possible back down to the ground floor, the keys to Derek's car in one hand, his gun clutched in the other. When he reaches the second floor landing, he pauses, and looks out the front window. There are none of the things in sight, and the pounding at the door has stopped. Steeling himself and trying to be silent, he makes his way down the last flight of stairs.

The door is still wedged closed. Stiles listens carefully, and hearing nothing, he eases the box away. It's heavy, heavier than Derek with his manly werewolf muscles had made it look. Stiles braces it on his left hip, keys wedged between his fingers and the box, thumb over the buttons on the remote. He presses it once to unlock the driver's door, then he presses the second button down, to open the trunk hatch. He peaks around the door, gun in his free hand, and seeing no movement, opens it fully. His arm and hip are already beginning to ache with the heavy weight. Sticking his head out the door he looks both ways. Still nothing. He sets his gun back in the holster and grabs up the bag of clothes, wrapping the trash bag handles around his hand for a good grip. Then he runs for the car, as fast as he can lugging all of that weight. "God," he mutters to himself. "I need to work out more. This is ridiculous."

The car isn't far away. But Derek had not positioned it for a strategic retreat. Stiles rounds the bumper of the rusty old cargo van parked next to it, and comes face to face with one of them. The sight of it stops him in place, and he lets out a startled yelp. It reaches for him, making that gurgling growling moaning sound. Stiles falls backward flailing. The box crashes to the ground, several books and the jacket spilling out. He releases the bag, scrambling for his gun, as the thing lumbers toward him. But his fingers have gone numb, the bag ties twisting around them in a knot. He kicks backward trying to get more distance, but the thing is sort of fast for whatever it is. He reaches across his body with his left hand grabbing for the gun. He brings it up just as the thing lunges. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and fires. He fires again and again and the body falls on top of him, unmoving. Stiles dry heaves, pushing it away from him with shaking hands, finally pulling his hand free of the bag handles. A sound from around the corner has him turning in fear. More of them are coming.

Stiles ignores the brown blood coating his chest, darkening his gray t-shirt into a blackish brown color. But when he tries to ignore the dead putrid smell of it, he fails. He retches again, spitting up on the ground. Stumbling away from the puddle he grabs the bag of clothes, flinging it into the open trunk. Then he scrambles across the concrete, tossing books back into the box, and snatching up the leather jacket. He sets the box down more carefully, tossing the jacket on top and then slamming the trunk closed.

Before any more of them have managed to get within a few yards, he is inside the car, the doors locked and the engine started. He peels out of the parking space trying desperately to keep what little calm he has managed to still maintain.

If everything has gone according to plan, and Stiles desperately hopes it has, then Derek will be two blocks down, on the roof of a one story building that had once been part of an office park. Stiles turns the last corner and sees him. Derek's on the roof of the building, wolfed out and looking furious. More than a dozen of the things claw at the side of the building under his feet. Stiles opens up the moon roof with one hand and circles around to the far side of the building. Derek runs across the roof and jumps off, landing on top of the car with a loud thud that shakes the whole car. As soon as Stiles sees two clawed hands curl over the moon roofs edge, he accelerates away, choosing to ignore the sound of two bodies bouncing off the front bumper as he goes.

Once they've cleared the area Derek yells his name and Stiles slows down. Derek maneuvers around to drop down feet first into the passenger seat, reaching up to close the roof as soon as his ass touches the seat cushion. He's out of breath, breathing hard, and still partially shifted. His eyes are electric blue, and his face furrier than normal, his teeth still elongated. He slides the interior panel closed across the moon roof and lets himself shift back to normal.

"I heard shots," Derek says, eyes on the road in front of them, then on the rearview mirror, and the side mirror out his window. Stiles doesn't answer. "Stiles?" Derek asks, finally turning to look at him.

Stiles is pale and sweaty, his breathing shallow and fast. He's gripping the steering wheel with two white knuckled fists. And then Derek sees the blood.

"Jesus! Stiles!? Pull over!" he yells turning in his seat, hands scrambling to lift Stiles' shirt. Stiles slams on the brakes and bats Derek's hands away.

"Don't! Don't touch me!" he screams. He throws the car into park and opens the door, falling out of his seat to the asphalt in a mess of uncoordinated arms and legs and pure panic.


	10. Scott slams the door to the jeep

10.

Scott slams the door to the jeep, and lets his mother greet him with a hug, hands gentle and familiar smoothing down the length of his back, checking, he knows, for injuries. He hugs her back and lets her check him over.

"Hey, Mom. The power is out here too?" he asks. She nods, finally pulling away. "I thought it would be. It went out when we were at Kira's." He smiles at Isaac and helps him pull the garage door down manually, tying it shut, then he pats Isaac on the shoulder in approval. They house is dark and quiet. When Scott reaches the living room he finds Kira sitting on the couch closest to the window, going through the bag of stuff she'd brought from home, her katana resting within arm's easy reach. Allison stands guard at the window.

Melissa picks her way through the bags and bedrolls that litter the living room floor to sit down beside Kira. Kira smiles at her, looking a little watery eyed. "How are you doing, Honey?" she asks, running a hand down Kira's back. Kira smiles half-heartedly.

She motions to the stuff lying all around her.

"I thought I would just grab my katana and some clothes, maybe a book or two, but then I saw my jewelry box, and photos of my parents, and my tantō knives my mother gave to me on my Birthday, and I just…" she shrugs. "It was hard to choose what to leave behind, and what to bring with us. Scott was very understanding and patient about waiting. I'm sorry it took us so long."

"It's hard. Of course it is," Melissa says. "Besides, you weren't even gone that long, Kira. You beat Stiles and Derek back."

"They're not back yet?" Scott asks stepping closer to them, dread filling his gut.

Stiles starts to hyperventilate, his chest tightening with panic. He sucks in deep gasping breaths. But they're too fast, and he can't seem to get enough air.

"Stiles!" Derek shouts following him out the open driver's side door. He crouches next to Stiles, reaching for his shoulders, but Stiles crawls backward flailing indiscriminately and kicking him away. Derek holds his hands up and moves just a slight bit closer but he doesn't reach for Stiles again. "I won't touch you, ok?" he says quieting his voice, trying to soothe. "Breathe, you have to breathe." He looks around quickly and then focuses completely on Stiles. "Stiles, look at me," he orders. Stiles stares at him a little wild eyed. "Stiles?" he asks, voice softer. Stiles nods, tears beginning to streak his face. He reaches up to wipe them away but Derek's voice stops him. "No! The blood, it could be on your hands. Don't get it in your eyes!" he explains. Stiles freezes, and nods tightly, closing his eyes and trying to calm his breathing. Derek keeps talking to him. "In and out, slow and steady," Derek says.

After a few minutes of carefully controlled inhales and exhales his immediate panic begins to ebb, and his breathing begins to come more easily, his heart rate slowing to a more manageable level. The tears, however, keep coming. Derek keeps watch, doing visual checks around them every 30 seconds or so, always focusing back on Stiles again.

"You ok?" he asks when Stiles seems calmer. Stiles looks at him and shrugs. "We got to get you cleaned up," Derek stands, looking further up the street. "There's a strip mall a few blocks up the road. Strip off that shirt." Stiles does as orders, and lets Derek talk him through turning it inside out and wiping off his face and hands with it. There is old blood splattered up his bare arms, and on his neck. He feels nasty. Climbing to his feet, Stiles tosses the shirt to the ground and lets Derek direct him to the passenger seat of his Toyota. They drive to the strip mall in complete silence. The parking lot is deserted.

Derek starts to pull into a parking space out front but Stiles' stops him.

"No. Park around back, and back up to the door in case we need to make a quick exit," he says. Derek does as he asks, driving around to the back of the shopping center, and parking behind the ice cream shop. He watches, hand clenched on his gun, as Derek breaks open the door, and leads him inside to the bathroom. Stiles flips on the light, steps inside, and avoids looking at himself in the mirror.

"Scrub everything," Derek orders. "I'll find you something to wear," he offers. Stiles nods, turns on the hot water, and reaches for the soap dispenser. He lathers up his hands, and arms, face, and chest. He gets his neck, and behind his ears. He rinses off, splashing water around indiscriminately, not caring that his jeans get soaked with it. Once the water runs clear he lathers up again, scrubbing under his nails and rinsing out his eyes and mouth. He even checks his nose.

When Derek returns he's on his third pass, and he looks like a drowned rat, soaked from head to toe and still scared shitless. He has the gun up before he can register Derek's frowning face, water dripping from his wet hand onto the floor between them. Derek pushes the gun barrel down. Stiles breathes carefully, and re-holsters it, the motion somehow becoming more and more natural the more he does it. He turns back to the sink, leaning on the edge of it with both hands for balance.

"Sorry," he whispers. Derek waves away the apology.

"Did it get you? Any scratches? Bites?" he asks. His eyes scan across Stiles' bare pale skin, like doesn't quite trust Stiles' assessment of any possible injuries. Stiles shakes his head 'no.'

"I… I shot it. But it was standing over me. It sort of… it fell down on top of me," Stiles explains. Derek studies him.

"I think you'll be ok. Melissa said bites. Your dad said bites," it's meant to be reassuring but all Stiles can think is that he desperately wants Derek to stop using the word 'bites.' Stiles sags a little to lean against the sink.

"Ok," he says, shivering in the air conditioned bathroom.

"Now, which do you want?" Derek asks. He holds up two t-shirts, both in roughly Stiles' size. One is bright blinding pink, and has the name of the ice cream parlor emblazoned across the back. The other is a plain white and bears the logo of the LA Dodgers. Stiles grimaces at it and reaches for the neon pink monstrosity. Derek snorts.

"Pink over the Dodgers? Spoken like a true Mets fan." Stiles rolls his eyes in answer and pulls on the t-shirt, feeling it stick here and there where his skin is still wet.

"Dude, men can wear pink, but a Mets fan would never wear another team's t-shirt. Besides, gendered colors are a completely fabricated societal construct that have only existed as they currently do for the last like 70 years," he snaps. Derek smirks at him. But before he can formulate a response the lights flicker and then go out. They don't come back.

"What now?" Derek breathes. He leaves the bathroom, Stiles on his heels. They step out into the main section of the ice cream shop, which is lit up with mid afternoon sunlight.

"Power's out," Stiles unhappily supplies. Derek looks at him blankly. "What did you think was going to happen, Derek? People are dying and coming back as Not-People. And those Not-People are eating and killing other people. Did you think pesky things like utilities would just keep functioning while the whole world went to shit?" he asks. He slumps into a chair in the back booth, and crosses his arms on the table. "It's a whole new world."

"Don't start quoting Disney at me, Stiles. I can't handle it right now," Derek says shaking his head and jumping over the counter so easily that Stiles actually blinks in surprise.

"What are you doing?" Stiles asks sitting up in his seat.

"What did your Mom and Dad always do first thing when you were a little kid and the power went out?" he asks. Stiles' whole face lights up. He's behind the counter with Derek a few seconds later. He rubs his hands together in excitement.

"Where should we start?" he asks.


	11. Stiles swallows a mouthful of smooth

11.

Stiles swallows a mouthful of smooth sweet and deliciously cold chocolate ice cream. Then licks drips of strawberry sauce and bits of Oreo off the spoon. Derek sits across from him, popping one mini Reese's peanut butter cup after another into his mouth, taking the time once in a while to dip them in a mound of vanilla ice cream and caramel first, his eyes closed in bliss. They had made the biggest sundaes they could, getting large mixing bowls from the kitchen, and taking scoops and spoonful's of whatever they wanted. Stiles doesn't even feel the littlest bit guilty. He dives his spoon back into the bowl, scooping up mint chocolate chip ice cream covered in sprinkles and swallowing the spoonful down in one bite. He looks up to find Derek's eyes on him. He's frowning, his forehead creased.

"What?" Stiles asks, stirring nuts into the pool of strawberry in the corner of his bowl.

"You're going to get an ice cream headache and I'm going to laugh," Derek replies. Stiles rolls his eyes, shifts in his padded booth seat and shovels another mouthful, fudge ripple with M&Ms this time, into his mouth. He swallows in exaggerated fashion, and sits back in his seat. A few seconds later he's pinching the bridge of his nose and whining, his eyes squeezing closed in a wince. Derek's laughter is loud and long, his head tossing backward. Stiles smiles through the wince but sobers fast and quickly shushes him. They both glance out the front window of the shop, but there is still nothing moving out there. Derek jumps up, running for the back of the store, double checking out back as well. Again nothing. He returns looking contrite, and Stiles pushes his ice cream away, still rubbing at his forehead. He's lost his appetite.

"We should probably get going," he says quietly. Derek nods, wiping at his face with a napkin.

"They're not back yet?" Scott asks, sitting up some. "Where's Lydia? Mr. Stilinski?" he asks.

"Lydia's sleeping upstairs. John," she's emphasizes, "has taken it upon himself to raid the refrigerator for perishables," she says. "It's a cold dinner tonight ladies and gentleman."

"But Stiles and Derek aren't back yet?" he asks. The worry is clear in his voice, and Allison turns at the tone. Kira, too, notices. She stands and moves closer. Melissa shakes her head no. "But we had to go further than they did. And we had more stuff to get. They should be back by now." He stands back up and heads for the kitchen.

"Scott, I'm sure it's nothing," Allison says. She nods at Isaac to watch the windows and goes after him, Melissa and Kira following.

"We can't know that. Anything could have happened. What if they got attacked?" Scott asks rounding the corner into the kitchen.

John looks up from the cutting board where he's slicing fruit. He eyes Scott carefully.

"There's no reason to panic, Scott. They're probably fine," John tells him. Scott frowns at him.

"They could be in trouble. I'm going to go look for them," Scott says. John shakes his head.

"Bad idea," he tells him. "Fruit?" He holds out half an apple. Scott takes it without even thinking.

"I need to make sure they're alright," Scott explains.

"I am sure they're fine, Scott," Kira says.

"You don't even know where they are," Allison says, stepping up beside him. "This isn't like before. We can't just call them up, or check the GPS on their phones. You'd be going out blind."

"I've got my nose don't I? We know where they were going. The loft and then your house," Scott says to John. "That's a pretty good start." John sighs.

"Can you guys give us a minute?" he asks. Kira and Allison both nod, leaving the room, but Melissa stays.

"You can't really be telling me that we should just leave them out there. It's Stiles and Derek!"

"I know that, Scott. Stiles is my kid. But this is a more dangerous world then we've ever known before. We can't just freak out and panic every single time someone is a little late getting back. Everything is life or death now, Scott. And you're the Alpha. They're all counting on you to be here. You have to keep your cool," John explains. Scott looks away, tension in his shoulders dropping away.

"If they need help we can't just ignore it. What kind of alpha would I be if I just let my best friend and one of my betas just die without doing anything to help them?" Scott asks. His voice sounds pained, and John smiles sadly.

"I'm not saying you have to do nothing. I'm saying you have to think things through. We have to develop a plan of action, and sometimes the plan is to wait. They'll call you if they need you."

"We don't have cellphones anymore, remember?" Scott bites into the apple half absentmindedly.

"Ahh, but they don't need cellphones to call for help, do they?" Melissa says, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You'll know if they need you. They'll howl."

Stepping inside the house he's lived in his entire life suddenly feels strange, weirdly disconnected. They do a quick sweep but all the doors and windows are intact, and according to Derek, it smells only of the pack, of friends and family. No one else has been here.

Stiles retrieves his father's list, slightly damp from his back pocket and gets to work on his requested stuff first. He hasn't asked for much. Stiles' Dad's back-up weapon is in a locked gun case in the bottom of his bedroom closet. Stiles has known the code to unlock it since he was 12. His spare gun holster is in the bottom drawer of his chest of drawers. Stiles stuffs jeans, t-shirts, henleys, and flannels into a duffel bag, adding underwear and socks on top. Then he grabs his Dad's tennis shoes, and hiking boots as well. Derek takes the bag down to the car without a word.

Stiles looks around the room. It had been his parent's bedroom when he was a child, and his father's bedroom since his mother's passing. Signs of his mother had been slowly disappearing from it for years. His father still wears his wedding ring, and hasn't asked for anything specific of hers to take with them. Stiles grabs his parents wedding album just in case. His mother, Claudia, had never been really big on jewelry or physical mementos. But she had become minorly obsessed with crochet when she first got sick. It had kept her hands busy, and made her feel both productive and creative, without taking up too much of her dwindling energy. The afghan she had crocheted for their bedroom still covered the foot end of the bed. Stiles folds it up carefully. It's one thing he doesn't want to leave behind, even if the stitching is irregular and sort of bumpy.

His room is somehow harder, but not for the reason he had been expecting.

When Derek returns from taking the first load to the car he finds Stiles sorting through books at his desk. Stiles has him get a plastic bin from the hall closet, and they fill it with all the books and various necessities they had acquired in the last year and a half. Mountain Ash, Wolfsbane, etc. Stiles finds his ipod too, glad for car chargers and his propensity to download books on tape and every album of music he'd ever even half liked. He takes his spare charger too and then turns to his clothes.

What he chooses is pretty standard. Stiles raids his closet for sturdy jeans, and plaid shirts. Derek goes to the dresser and goes through the drawers for t-shirts, underwear, and socks. Stiles tries to ignore that Derek of all people has his hands on Stiles' boxer shorts, as he grabs a few pairs of shoes, and calls it done.

Derek takes the bag and the box downstairs to load them into the car. Stiles slumps on the end of his bed, unsure what else they'll need. When Derek comes back he finds Stiles sitting with his head in his hands. He's not crying or panicking so Derek decides to leave him be. But when 5 minutes have passed and Stiles still hasn't moved, Derek starts to actually worry.


	12. Scott checks his watch for the twelfth

12.

Scott checks his watch for the twelfth time. He stands up from the dining room table.

"I can't just wait here all day. There's too much stuff to do. We need to start getting our other supplies. Allison, Sheriff, I want you too to come with me," he says.

"Of course," Allison says. She smiles at Isaac and stoops against the wall to ready her crossbow.

"Where are we headed?" John asks. Scott frowns.

"We need batteries, flashlights, lanterns. And I want a hand crank generator if we can find one," he explains. Lydia steps into the kitchen, an oversize sweater wrapped around her despite the growing heat of a California summer. Scott is already missing air conditioning. She smiles at the obvious concern they all send her way.

"You should hit up that camping supply store on 13th & Grove," she says finding a bottle of water.

"Is that what the voices are saying?" Allison asks, reaching out to her best friend for a hug. Lydia laughs into her shoulder.

"No! They're voices in my head, not a magic 8 ball," Lydia replies. "My common sense tells me we are going to need more sleeping bags, and at least one more tent. Also you should stock up on propane canisters and get a hatchet," she says. Scott stares at her. "I'll make you a list," she says rolling her eyes in fond exasperation.

"Stiles? You ok?" Derek asks. Stiles picks his head up and blinks at him.

"I don't know what to take," he says frowning. He stands up, walking in a circle around his bedroom. "What do I take? Books? Movies? Video Games? Comic Books? Action Figures? Band Posters?" he motions to each item as he walks, throwing his hands up in the air. "It's all just stuff, none of it means anything." He drops his hands to his sides, looking perplexed. The whole world is going to shit and Stiles can't decide what to pack. Derek stands up. He walks to the closet and starts sorting through it.

"Here," Derek pulls out Stiles' lacrosse jersey and stuffs it into another backpack. He follows it up with a red hoodie, and a stuffed monkey that Stiles had always kept hidden in the very back of his bottom desk drawer. Stiles startles when he sees it. He doesn't want to know how Derek knew it was there. Derek studies the room carefully and snags Stiles' Mets cap from under a stack of last quarters school binders. "Anything else?" Derek asks. Stiles scrubs at his hair, pivoting in place to look around. He goes to his nightstand, and finds his Dad's old badge there, THE badge. The one he'd clung too while temporarily sacrificing himself to save his father. He shoves it deep into his pocket. There isn't anything else. He takes the backpack from Derek and leaves the room. He doesn't look back, and he also doesn't notice, Derek snatching something out of an open dresser drawer, or pulling down two framed pictures off the wall as he follows. 

They raid the kitchen for any food they can find to take with them. Stiles is suddenly glad his father had bought a Big Box Membership years before. They have a lot of canned tuna and soup, vegetables and pasta sauce. He snatches up all the snacks, and cereal he can find too. Anything that isn't perishable. They're going to need as much as they can find. On the way out to the car, Stiles takes a detour to the garage to get his Dad's fishing gear and his trusty aluminum bat.

Once everything is in the car, Stiles climbs into the passenger seat and closes his eyes. He doesn't open them again until they are at least a couple of blocks away from the street he had grown up on. Only after they've turned enough corners does he blink his eyes open and turn to study Derek's profile. His face is blank, devoid of any emotion.

"How did you know about my monkey?" he asks. Derek glances at him and shrugs.

"I could smell it," Derek replies. He reaches up and scratches at the side of his head, hand going back to the wheel, eyes constantly scanning the road. Stiles catches the sight of more of the things flying by the window as Derek accelerates past them.

"You could smell it?" he asks, incredulous. "In a room that smells like me, that is literally full of teenage boy musk you could smell it?" Derek's face twitches. Stiles jaw drops. "What else could you smell?" he asks. Derek smirks at him, arching an eyebrow.

"Do you really want me to answer that question?" Derek asks. Stiles grimaces.

"No. No, I really don't," he looks away. There's a larger group of the Not-People-People blocking half the road. "We need to get out of town Derek. There's more and more of these things by the hour," he says quietly. He turns in his seat, to watch them in the rearview mirror. Most of them have changed direction, and started back up the road after the moving car. Stiles slumps. "They're following us," he says. Derek steps on the accelerator again, turning a corner, and then another to lose them. Stiles repositions in his seat, still watching out the back window. He looks down at the half case of green beans sitting in the back seat and gasps. "YES!" he shouts.

The car jerks as Derek startles.

"What the hell, Stiles! What's wrong!?"

"Nothing! Nothing is wrong, but I'm a fucking genius!" He turns back to sit correctly in his seat, and points to the left. "Turn up there!" he says. Derek frowns.

"That's not the way back to Argent's house," Derek says. Stiles practically bounces in his seat.

"No, it's the way to Costco," Stiles replies. "That new one they just built out by the highway. The one that hasn't opened yet. They weren't supposed to open for another two weeks. I bet you anything they've already started stocking. And no one really knows about it yet. It's perfect. Think about how much food and water they'll have there. Derek, we have to check it out!" Derek looks at him, clearly considering it. "Please!?" Stiles asks. Derek sighs, and makes the turn.

Scott takes point as they approach the outdoors store. It was smaller than the big place up at the mall, which was surely overrun by now, if not by the walking corpses that were becoming more and more numerous then, at least by looters. But Camp-O-Mania was a small Mom & Pop joint located right near the trail head of the preserve. John had known the owners for longer than Stiles had been alive. He'd wanted to go in first, but Scott had insisted.

When Scott steps inside, he finds the place dark. He steps quietly down the hallway leading from the back exit. The place seems undisturbed, almost abandoned. Scott focuses his hearing momentarily behind himself, to check on Allison and the Sheriff. Which is of course when he turns the corner, and finds a gun pressed to his temple.

"Goddamn looters think they can break in here and steal my merchandise. I should kill you where you stand," the voice that growls is older, tired, angry. Scott freezes in place, his hands raising to show he's unarmed in the dim light.

"Jerry?" there's a scuffle from the hallway and John steps closer. "Jerry Fisher, it's John, John Stilinski. Put that gun down this instant," he uses his sheriff voice, and Scott practically feels the stranger relax. The gun lowers immediately, the safety clicking back into place.

"John! Well I'll be!" he reaches out for a camp lantern, turning the dial to light up the back of the store, then he reaches for John's hand, shaking it firmly. "Sorry about that, can't be too safe. I've witnessed more lootin' in the last two days then in all my years in this business." He steps back setting the gun down the checkout counter. He slumps to sit on a stool there, and rests his body back against the wall with a grunt, his face twisting in a grimace.

"Jerry, what's wrong?" John asks kneeling down to check on him. Jerry grunts.

"Nothing, don't you worry. I'll be just fine," he opens his eyes in the blue light of the lamp, as he eyes Scott. "This your son? He's changed since he was a boy." John smiles, but shakes his head.

"Practically mine, but technically not. This here is Scott McCall. He's been Stiles' best friend since he was four. I think I've brought them both by a couple of times when they were younger," John says, patting Scott on the shoulder. Scott has a sudden flash of memory: Mr. Stilinski bringing him and Stiles here when they were nine. Mr. Stilinski, still a deputy then, had been taking them on a camping trip for the weekend. They'd come here for sleeping bags and thermal underwear. The man nods, looking pained again, and pulls at his shoulder like it hurts. Scott takes a curious sniff and recoils. He smells off, and like blood. Old and new.

"Mr. Fisher?" Scott asks, approaching cautiously. The old man looks up at him, and his eyes are vaguely glassy, almost feverish.

"Mhmm?" he asks.

"Your shoulder? It's injured?" he asks. The man nods, and Scott steps closer bending to look at it. He pulls back the neck of the man's t-shirt to reveal a chunk of skin and muscle missing from where his shoulder joins the back of his neck.


	13. The front of the Costco Wholesale

13.

The front of the Costco Wholesale Warehouse was still under construction. The parking lot was only half paved, and metal fencing still closed the whole thing off from the street. Derek drove around back, it was pretty deserted, no cars around it, and no sign of movement inside. There were also no people outside, previously living or not.

"We should check it out," Stiles says. Derek shakes his head.

"No, we should get back to the house. We've been gone for too long already. We'll come back on our way out of town," Derek says. He drives along the back of the building, stopping when they hit a dead end, where the dumpsters have already been set up. He starts a three point turn, trying to maneuver in the limited space available to go back the way they'd come. When he brakes in order to put the car in reverse, Stiles reaches for his door handle.

"It could be all picked over by then!" he protests, flinging his door open. Derek snags him by the back of his hot pink t-shirt, dragging him back into his seat. Stiles huffs, shaking his head, and flailing. "God, you're such an asshole! We have to scope it out!" Derek keeps his grip on Stiles, as he turns the car around and accelerates out of the parking lot. Stiles door flies closed with the forward momentum, and Derek hits the child lock as soon as he can safely free his left hand from the wheel. Only then does he release Stiles.

"I'm not going into that warehouse without back-up!" Derek shouts.

"And just what am I? The Pack's useless human?" Stiles spits back. Derek's jaw flexes where he's clamped it shut in agitation. He takes several deep breaths before replying.

"We have no idea what's in there, Stiles! I'm not going into a place that big without at least one other person besides the two of us. What if it's full of those dead people?" he asks. "We'd be killed!"

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and turns away. He's furious and his ego is bruised, and he wants nothing more than to do the exact opposite of what Derek tells him too. Derek is not his alpha, he has no right to decide what Stiles can or cannot do. But Stiles is not stupid. He knows in this case that Derek is right. So instead he fumes in his seat, angry and frustrated.

"We're going to go back, Stiles," Derek says, voice calmer, less angry. "It's a genius idea. But we have to be smart about it. We'll come back with more numbers, and a car with some room in it." Stiles glances into the backseat which is already a little full of fishing gear, and clothes, and books, and food. He slumps back into his seat, and looks out his window.

"Fine. But we are definitely coming back," he replies. Derek nods.

"I promise."

Scott closes his eyes and moves quickly away from Mr. Fisher. He meets Allison's eyes, and shakes his head. Now that he knows the man is bitten it's clear he is already infected and that the fever has set in. It is only a matter of time before he dies and turns. She winces. John watches the interaction closely, the realization and horror dawns across his face quickly. He hides it before Mr. Fisher can notice.

"You were bit?" Allison asks, her voice soft, but controlled. Mr. Fisher nods.

"This morning. Some maniac was waiting outside my front door. Whole town has gone to shit!" he says. "Is that what you're here about John? I just stopped in to check on the store and then I was coming straight down to the station to report it and turn myself in. I swear on my beloved Margie's grave, I tried to call down to the station, but the phones were jammed. I didn't want to shoot him. But he… he was like an animal." Mr. Fisher shakes his head, looking away from them all. John swallows thickly.

"No, I'm sure you did what you had to do," he says. "We actually came here because of the power outage. We needed some supplies." He pauses, frowning. "You know I'm good for it," he finishes with a smile. Jerry laughs and waves him off.

"Take whatever you need! We'll settle up later." He stands from his stool, leaning on the counter, him balance unsteady. "Think I might head on home. I'm not feeling too well. You send someone out to my house to collect the body please. I.. I'll come down whenever you need me too to give my statement." He reaches under the counter for a set of keys, handing them to John. "Lock up when you leave?" he asks. John nods, reaching out to shake the man's hand again. He squeezes it hard before releasing it, and then walks him to the back of the store. Scott follows, and they watch as the old man climbs into the bed of his pick-up truck, and drives away. As soon as he turns the corner the smile drops off of John's face.

John closes and locks the door behind them as they make their way back to the front of the store. Allison is already stuffing supplies into bags.

They grab canteens and camp stoves, flashlights and batteries. Hand crank generators and sleeping bags. Allison snags all the trail mix and MREs they have in supply, water purification kits, and several sets of walkie talkies. Scott grabs up an axe, and lanterns, matches, and rope. John walks to the hunting section, and uses the keys he'd been given to open up the knife case. He finds several bowie knives that could come in handy with accompanying sheaths, and a few good quality belts to go along with them. Everyone, he decides, werewolf or not is going to be armed from now on. They take other odds and ends, filling up their bags, and several boxes.

"We need to hit an electronics store," John says. Allison frowns, her forehead wrinkling in confusion.

"The powers out here. Soon it will be out everywhere. Batteries I can understand, but why an electronics store?" she asks. A smile lights up John's face.

"Two words for you: Car chargers," he says.

Five minutes pass slowly and Stiles calms down considerably, however he has never been one to sit in awkward silence. He is much too chatty for that.

"Are you going to miss it?" Stiles asks. "Beacon Hills?" Derek doesn't answer for a beat too long. "Are you?" Stiles prods.

"No. Stiles, I'm not going to miss anything about this fucked up town." When he stops to think about it, Stiles can actually totally see why.

"I don't think I'm going to miss it either," he says.

They pass a driver going the other way on the road, his car is overloaded with boxes, and the driver is going way too fast. Stiles doesn't bother trying to recognize them.

"You grew up here, Stiles. You're going to miss it," Derek argues.

"So did you," Stiles points out. It was true. Derek had been raised right here in Beacon Hills. He'd even attended Stiles' high school. Derek shakes his head in disagreement.

"No, I was a child here. I grew up after I left. And I left after losing everything tying me to this goddamn place." Stiles considers this and he can't deny the logic.

"Well there's nothing we're leaving behind that's going to be worth missing. Anything worth giving a fuck about is coming along for the ride."

Derek fights back a smile. It's a pretty accurate statement. The entire pack was going, Stiles Dad, and Scott's Mom included. As long as the pack survived there wasn't much here they would miss.

"Well, I am sort of going to miss your jeep," Derek teases. Stiles groans.

"Oh God, don't remind me!" Stiles loves that damn jeep and he is not excited about having to leave it behind.

"And the Curly fries from that drive thru place on 3rd and Reuben," Derek says. This time Stiles' groan is twice as loud, and actually gets a full smile out of Derek.

"Don't torture me like this. I don't need any more reasons to be depressed about the downfall of modern society without you bringing Curly Fries into the mix!"


	14. Two minutes after Stiles and Derek

14.

Two minutes after Stiles and Derek pull up and Isaac and Kira let them into the garage, Scott, Allison, and Stiles' dad pull up behind them. Isaac must spot them approaching from half way up the street because he has the door back up before they can latch it closed. Stiles' jeep has just enough room to squeeze in beside Derek's Toyota and the Argent's SUV.

Seconds later the doors are flying open and Scott is standing in front of them, clearly relieved to have them back. He steps closer, smiling and excited.

"What took you guys so long? We were starting to worr…" Scott freezes, his eyes going shocked. Stiles grimaces.

"We ran into some trouble?" Stiles says. Scott darts toward him, hands and eyes searching. Stiles is beginning to think these body checks are quickly going to be routine whenever everyone returns from a trip.

"What kind of trouble?" Stiles tries to smile at his Dad to ease his obvious anxiety.

"Please tell me neither of you were bit!" Scott says. He grabs Stiles by the shoulders, so he can examine him closer. He bends in and sniffs, and Stiles smacks him away at the disgusted face he makes. Scott turns to Derek and looks at him like he wants to the exact same check on him. Derek shakes his head, holding up a staying hand.

"We're fine. Both of us. No bites or scratches. Stiles had to shoot one of them. Got some blood on himself. We had to stop and get him cleaned up," Derek explains. The sheriff makes a hurt worried sound and grabs Stiles up in a tight hug.

"You're sure it didn't break the skin?" he asks.

"I'm sure. It didn't get close enough. I swear!" Stiles replies.

"Well dude, I think you need to go take a shower. Because you sort of reek," Isaac says, already digging through the bags in the back of Stiles' jeep. Kira laughs.

"There should be enough hot water in the tank for one more shower. I think we can all agree Stiles deserves it," she says, slugging a bag over her shoulder and following Isaac toward the living room. She pauses at Scott, and he smiles at her a little shyly, before bending down to press a kiss to the side of her cheek. She beams up at him. They've been dating six months, and it is frankly ridiculous they are still so cutesy, but Stiles would never point that out. At least not right now. Cutesy was not something to be taken for granted at the moment.

As soon as Stiles steps into the shower, Scott tugs an unresisting Derek up the stairs and into the guest bedroom. He closes the door behind them. Then he looks at Derek with such a worried expression that Derek can't help but start talking to try to ease the anxiousness rolling off of Scott in waves. He tells Scott about the loft, about the large group of previously living people they'd had to dodge. About jumping from roof top to roof top and hearing the distant shots, about Stiles coming for him, and then seeing the blood. He details Stiles' panic attack on the road and tells Scott about the growing numbers they'd seen on the streets, how the smell of them was thick in the air practically everywhere they'd been. He tells him about the stop at Stiles' house, and about their trip to the Costco. He tells him that Stiles had handled himself well (in general). How he had good instincts (mostly), but that he'd been understandably terrified and horrified by what he'd seen and done that day. Scott listens to all of this with tense shoulders, and an uncharacteristic frown. When Derek stops talking, Scott nods in acceptance, and reaches up to grip Derek on the shoulder.

"Thank you for going with him today," he says. He doesn't make any mention of having asked Derek to take him in the first place. "Things…" Scott pauses, and drops his voice even quieter than before, "things are going to get very very bad Derek. And we need to look out for each other. Stiles is… he's my best friend, and he's the sheriff's son, and he tries his best to take care of Lydia, whether she appreciates it or not, but he doesn't..." Scott stops himself midsentence and closes his eyes. He straightens his shoulders. "He doesn't take care of himself like he should. He tries to protect everyone else, and he forgets that he needs to protect his own ass too. Can you just try and look out for him for me? Everything is just going to get crazier and scarier, and more hectic. I just want to make sure we are all watching out for one another," he explains. Derek thinks it over before agreeing. This is not a simple thing that Scott is asking him for, but he's right. They all need to take care of each other. And everyone will naturally have their first and second priorities. For Scott it would be his mother, and Kira. For Stiles his father and Lydia. For Isaac Allison, and Mrs. McCall. For Allison Lydia and Isaac. For the Sheriff it would be Stiles and Melissa. But for Derek… for Derek it would now be Stiles. He cared about the pack as a whole, but most of them could take care of themselves, or had plenty of people already watching their backs. Derek had no problem choosing Stiles to babysit. If anyone need a little extra back up it was definitely Stiles Stilinski.

"Yeah man, no problem," Derek says. Scott's grin is practically blinding. Which is of course when they hear the loud crashing bang from the shower and both bolt for the door.

Stiles takes a camp lantern with him upstairs, fully intending to enjoy his last hot shower for who knows how long. He gets in while the it's still luke warm, letting the water pound against his shoulders and back as it slowly warms up. He ducks his head to drench his hair and squeezes his eyes shut in the half darkness. The bathroom has no windows and the light from the lantern turns the whole room a misty blue white color.

He indulges in the familiarity for a few minutes then gets to work. He scrubs at his skin, then at his hair, and then at his skin again. Every inch of his body gets scrubbed and rescrubbed until his skin feels new and pink and tingles. For the first time in years he stands under a spray of hot water and feels absolutely no impulse to jack-off. If the world wasn't ending he would probably be worried about himself.

He thinks later that he might have zoned out, muscles slack as he leans against the back wall, because suddenly the water pounding against his chest is icy cold, and Stiles body is flinging itself sideways in reaction before his brain can fully comprehend the situation.

He crashes through the flowery shower curtain and lands in a heap on the guest bathroom floor, butt cushioned (thankfully) by the fluffy bath mat and legs tangled in the curtain. He's cold and dripping wet. His flailing had knocked the lantern off the counter, breaking it practically in half, and he finds himself sitting in darkness, his heart pounding hard in his chest.

"I'm ok! I'm fine!" he shouts. He pushes wet hair off his forehead and sits forward to reach for the knobs to turn off the shower spray, but freezes halfway there. He is so not ok. He is so far from fine, he's in another zip code. He forces himself to sit forward again and with a quiet groan he manages to turn off the water. He grabs the towel he'd left folded up on top of the closed toilet and flops over on his back to stare up a the dark ceiling above him.

"I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine," he whispers, as if telling himself enough times will make it be true. He doesn't feel himself start to shake, or his heart steadily increasing its rhythm. He goes still and sort of shatters in on himself. Later, he'll call himself and idiot and a child for crying. But for now he just needs to be human, to be 17 and scared, and weak. There will be time for strength later. When they're facing down a whole slew of those things at once, when one of the pack inevitably, and it would happen eventually because that's how life works, dies. But here in this well-defended house surrounded by the entire pack and in the face of absolutely the shittiest day he has had in a long time, Stiles lets himself temporarily crumble.

When Scott's arms slide around him, he turns into Scott's body and clings. He doesn't feel any shame at all in the tears.


	15. When Scott awakens in the morning

15.

When Scott awakens in the morning, the sun has yet to come out. He jerks awake to a hushed conversation happening across the room between Isaac and Derek. They're standing by the front window, peaking out between the blankets they'd hung to block the view inside of the house. Scott gets up, stepping over Kira's sleeping form, over Stiles passed out with his back pressed to the wall, and his mom, sleeping curled on one end of the couch.

Derek turns to look at him as he approaches, his face becoming weary as the days go on, his already usually heavily whiskered cheeks getting darker and harrier from lack of upkeep. He looks even more like a wolf than usual.

"Who is watching the back?" Scott asks. He knows he had Derek set up back there for the last rotation. Derek shares a significant look with Isaac.

"We have Allison back there, I needed Derek's opinion," Isaac says as quietly as he can. Scott's concern practically doubles at the words and the look on his face. He steps even closer. Isaac motions to the window, and Derek eases back the makeshift curtain, just a few inches, enough for Scott to peek out. There are at least a dozen of the… (previously living? Not dead dead people? Stiles is right they need to decide what to call them) things… walking slow and steady down the street. They are all walking in the same direction, at the same pace. Their utter lack of emotion, and their single minded almost synchronized movement is seriously unsettling. He steps back.

"What are they doing?" he whispers. Derek takes a deep breath.

"I think they're starting to... pull together maybe? I think they've started to outnumber us. They're instinctively banning together to find us. To find food." Derek explains. Scott closes his eyes and fights not to grimace. He steels himself and squares his shoulders.

"We need to leave. Now. I'll tell Allison. Derek, you make sure none of them come toward the house, warn us if they do. Isaac, start waking people up. I want the cars loaded and ready by 6:30. It's time to go."

Allison is sitting in the dark by her window, one hip braced on the window ill, eyes scanning continuously. She turns instinctively to Scott's quiet approach. His quiet movement setting off her natural instincts. She grimaces a little, trying to smile and failing.

"They showed you," she whispers. He nods. She straightens her shoulders, and looks back out the window. "Today then?"

"This morning. I am sorry we can't stay longer. I knew you would want too, but we don't have the time. It isn't..." he pauses.

"Safe?" she finishes. Her face crumples for a few seconds before steeling with the kind of resolve that has always impressed Scott. "I don't think there is anywhere that is going to be safe. But I understand." She turns away from the window and attempts another smile, this one more successful. "Sheriff Stilinski helped me make a map last night, we hid it somewhere my dad would look, but not anyone else. It's vague enough that even if it was discovered by someone else they wouldn't know where to find us. I wrote half the notes in French," she shrugs. "He'll find us. I know he will." Scott nods.

"Of that, I have no doubt," he turns to look at the door, focusing his attention on the movement happening downstairs. "Everyone's up. Keep watch for another 10 and then come down. I want us all ready to go by then," he explains. She nods, reaching for his hand. He lets her take it, expression going soft.

"You're doing a good job, Scott. Just remember you're not in this alone."

"I know," he smiles. "The pack? It's family. It has been for a while," he watches dimples appear on her face with the smile she gives him. She reaches out for him, hugs him to her, and he wraps his arms around her, closing his eyes. They hadn't been together in a little over a year. She was with Isaac, and he was with Kira, and Scott was happy with that, with being her friend. But he would always love her just a little bit in that old way.

"Go on," she says pulling away, and tucking long dark hair behind her ear. "Go supervise. I have watch to keep." He steps away. "Oh, and Scott, can you make sure I'm in the car with Lydia. I want to be with her if she… you know," she says. Scott nods.

"Of course," he says. "We all need to look out for each other right?"

"I feel like I'm being babysat!" Stiles says. "I don't need you to look after me, Scott. I'm not a kid!" Stiles says. They're in his jeep, Scott driving.

"I'm not babysitting you, Stiles," Scott says. He and Stiles are in the front of their caravan, Derek driving his Toyota behind them. Inside with him was Kira and Stiles' Dad. Allison was bringing up the rear in the SUV, Isaac, Lydia, and Melissa in the back.

"I thought it was decided that we weren't going to bring my Jeep?" Stiles says suspiciously.

"We weren't, but then we looked at how much cargo room was left in the Yukon. Lydia suggested we spread out the load. Especially if we're going to stop at the Costco. There's no room for everyone and everything in just two cars. Besides, the jeep could be useful," Scott concedes. Stiles frowns harder.

"Don't talk about her like that. You'll hurt her feelings. She can hear you ya know!" Scott glances at him, one eyebrow arched high in amusement. They hold the moment for 2, 3 seconds before they're both laughing.

Stiles relaxes in his seat, limbs going loose. Once their laughter quiets they drive in silence for a few minutes. Stiles finally sighs.

"Just spit it out man," he says. Scott glances at him, brow furrowed. Stiles almost rolls his eyes. "You're my best friend, Scott. You think I haven't noticed the signs for when you want to talk by now?"

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm alright. Your mom checked me out this morning. No fever, no signs I'm sick at all." Scott frowns.

"You know that's not what I'm asking you," Scott says quieter, softer. Stiles scrubs at the back of his neck in discomfort, groaning and then scratching his thumb across his forehead in thought.

"I don't know. Things are really fucked up. I'm doing ok, not great, but I think that's all we can really expect right now." It's honest and it makes Stiles turn away from him.

"Stiles, we're going to get through this," Scott says. "We're going to be fine, I promise!"

"Scott, you do know that's a promise you won't be able to keep forever?" Stiles says, voice low. Scott looks at him uneasily. "You know I love you, and I trust you, and I'll follow you wherever you lead. We're more than pack. We're brothers. And I admire your optimism, but you can't really think that no matter what we're all going to make it out of this unscathed."

"I know," Scott says eyes on the road, they're almost to the Costco. "But I have to believe it. Or what's the point of even trying." Stiles nods.

"Ok," he keeps nodding. "Ok, that's a good enough reason to keep going." He looks in the side mirror at the car following them, and nods one more time. "Ok."

All three cars park behind the Costco, the entire area seemingly empty of anyone else, not-dead or not-not-dead.

Everyone gets out of the cars. "Ready?" Scott asks. Everyone nods. "Let's stock up and then, get the hell out of town. John, I want you to stay here with the cars, Allison watch his back. Lydia," he says. She waves him away, and sits almost daintily on the back bumper of the Yukon.

"I know. I know. Lydia wait here, try not to scream. I got it," she never looks up from the book she's reading. Scott laughs and shakes his head.

"Everyone else with me. You know what to look for. Let's make this quick," he turns and heads for the door, Kira beside him, sword drawn.

The store is completely disserted, no sign of any sort of movement, and according to the wolves in the group, completely dead person free. Unfortunately the store had only barely started stocking up. They find pallets of water, dry rice and beans. A few pallets of canned greens and other pantry goods.

"There's no way this will fit in our cars. And I would hate to leave it all!" Melissa says. She pokes a stack of bagged rice and frowns.

Stiles grins, "Maybe we don't have too," he says pointing out the front of the store where one lonely box truck was sitting silent and seemingly waiting for them. Which is how a truck full of foodstuffs and water was added to their caravan of cars head out of town.

It would be the last time that any of them would set foot in Beacon Hills, California. It was just the start of their journey that would take them thousands of miles and a whole continent away.


End file.
